Hidden Years
by Irbis
Summary: Sketches of events that happen in between 'Taking the Tiger' and 'The Proposal'. It's basically a collection of character studies for the relationship between Sabretooth and the OC Irbis, while setting up a canon for events and habits to make sure the 'Taming of the Hearts' cycle progresses smoothly. ch75: Creston: The Return. The end of the bear adventure.
1. Alberta: Not Fine

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

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My Irbis Saga is divided into two cycles: the Irbis Cycle proper, and the 'Taming of the Hearts' Cycle. This story is set in between them.

You do not have to read the first cycle, just be aware that Creed met his match (sort of) in this Irbis OC. Also, keep in mind that there was a traumatic event for the OC at the end of the first cycle that has a strong impact at the beginning of this tale

 **Warning!**

This was never supposed to be a real story so it doesn't have any real plot. It originated as a set of scenes that were supposed to set in stone some events and to help me flesh out the relationship between Creed and the OC (from now on called Isabel). But as the relationship got more and more fleshed, more and more chapters came to me. I also needed to have a clear picture of their future relationship in a way that would cut down on plot holes within my second cycle. So, from half a dozen chapters, it grew into a monster. My sister talked me into posting it all, but this is still just **a character study**.

The chapters were written randomly at first, which means that some chapters present events that eventualy ended up having a chapter of their own. I did not erase the repetition from the already written chapters, though I made sure they did not contradict each other.

Another very importat warning concerns the nature of the relationship I portrayed in this collection of sketches: it starts out as **abusive**. Victor Sabretooth Creed is not a nice guy, and there's only one type of relationship that's going to emerge where he is concerned. It will become less abusive as time goes by, but it is abusive. Even the OC has no illusions of the mutant having a soft spot for her, and I strongly advise you to follow her lead.

Having said that, I hope you'll enjoy the ride.

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 **1\. Alberta: Not Fine**

"Não!"

Creed aborted the movement to touch Isabel and sat up on the mattress.

"Don't touch me," she hissed in Portuguese, her face a mask of pain and determination. "I'm fine. I am _fine_."

Down in Mexico, she had avoided sleeping, afraid to get sucked into the painful nightmares. But the moment they'd left Mexico that had changed. And once they'd arrived in Canada, four days before, she hadn't even wanted him comforting her.

"How the fuck you're going to go about, fixing my new fucking identity, if I can't go through a fucking night by myself, huh?"

He'd also learnt she possessed a hell of a dirty language in Portuguese. It was a string of heavy curses from end to start, when the unabating nightmares and pain fueled her into a powerless fury.

"Fuck if I'm not getting over this shit all by myself," she groaned fiercely to herself. "I am no fucking dead-weight to no one."

She had been getting better though. She was down to one or two nightmares a night, if you didn't count the naps. And she had stopped throwing up too, although dreaming of the time they'd ripped her heart out still got her dry heaving. Creed glanced at the watch: four thirty.

"Ya wanna eat?"

Isabel opened her eyes, breathing hard, and glanced at him. Then she sat up with a grimace and hissed as she opened and closed her hand. She had probably been dreaming about having her hand skinned and then the flesh peeled off her fingers. The torturers had started that up once the telepath had discovered she enjoyed playing the piano and the guitar.

"No, thanks," she said in English, her voice soft and low. "I'm fine."

Creed got up and got a packet of snacks, then he got himself a beer. He watched her as she forced her fingers to exercise through the pain, her lips in a tight line. She had never been queasy about facing pain before, he knew that; but her resistance to pain had grown to a whole different level.

"I'm fine," she repeated, getting up and getting a glass with the hurting hand. "I just need some water."

She got the two-gallon bottle of water, always stubbornly using the hand that was obviously still hurting, and poured some into the glass.

"Everything is fine," she kept saying, either in Portuguese or in English. It irritated him to no end. "Perfectly fine. Fine, fine, fine."

"Will ya knock it off?" She glanced at him, mildly surprised. "Ya're far from fine."

He grabbed her hand and she breathed in sharply, painfully.

"See? _Not_ fine."

He let go of her and downed the beer, then went outside.

It was early March so temperatures hardly went above the 40º, and nights easily slid down to 10º. Isabel spent most of the time inside the cabin, trying to keep warm, day or night. He hadn't realised before that the girl was not used to such low temperatures. Still, if she could get used to pain, she could get used to snow and ice. He leaned against the cabin, the freezing logs biting the naked skin of his back, and breathed out.

Three weeks. He had rescued the woman three weeks ago. He was getting tired of…

"Hey."

Creed started and glanced at the door. The woman was wrapped up in a blanket and smiling brightly.

"No pain anymore. I'm fine now," she said as her teeth started chattering. " Huh… I mean, I was fine. Now I'm too cold to be fine. Come in?"

Well, it was a bit cold to be outside naked from the waist up. Creed walked back in and found her standing by the stove.

"Anoder beer?" He shook his head and she sighed. "I'm sorry I waked you again. Listen, you said you have to go and prepare me my papers… Why don't you go now so you can sleep widout have me wake you? I have certain de nightmares are gone when you return. I have _certain_."

He hesitated a moment, wondering how serious she was about it.

"Fine," he ended up saying. "I'll leave tomorrow mornin' an' should be gone fer about a week or so."

"A week," she said weakly, but then she nodded resolutely. "A week is great. No more nightmares when you return and… good night sleep. Right?"

She forced a smile on and obviously waited for his reaction. Creed shook his head.

"I'll try an' make it shorter," he said. "Ya'll probably go trough all the wood I've piled in three days."

She giggled, the wide smile genuine now.

"I'm not _dat_ bad," but her tone betrayed her statement.

"Or ya'll burn the cabin down," he teased. "Whichever happens first."

She stuck her tongue out and then let the blanket fall to the floor as she bounced up to him. She hooked a finger over the elastic of his pyjama bottoms and looked up at him.

"Now I need to compensate you because I waked you."

He grinned.

"Damn right ya do."

She got on the tip of her toes and answered his kiss with eagerness, her hands sliding under the bottoms to grope his ass.

He had been wary about the whole sex thing. He'd raped enough people to know you don't get over it overnight, after all. Especially if you coupled it with serious physical and psychological abuse. Isabel, though, had asked for it the very first night of their journey north. She had explained that she wanted to have great sex with him so she could forget all the… bad stuff. Her euphemism.

Creed broke the kiss and nibbled her earlobe gently. He was still being as gentle and careful as he could, trying to make sure he didn't trigger bad memories, but every now and then the woman showed a wilder streak that made it worth it. Like now: as he pulled her down onto the mattress, she bit his shoulder without any provocation. The first time, he'd told her to cut it out, but now he just answered in kind, though careful not to actually break skin, even if she didn't show him the same consideration.

"Wait, let me…"

She didn't finish, but she didn't have to. Creed gave her the time she needed to peel off her pyjamas as he got rid of his own bottoms.

"OK, now," she gazed intensely at him, her hand sliding across his chest. He liked the heat burning in those brown eyes, the way her fingers pressed demandingly against his body. "Do your thing and make de entire world go away."

Creed kissed her and she kissed back, earnestly. He couldn't wait for the whole 'getting over it' period to end. He was dying to send all control to hell and fuck the woman for all he was worth.

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If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	2. Alberta: To be or not to be a girl

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

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 **2\. Alberta: To be or not to be a girl**

Creed brought down the axe and split the wood into two, three, four pieces. It was a crisp sunny day and he was hoping to finish the tree well before lunch. It should yield just under a cord of wood. In the afternoon, he'd look around and see if he could locate more dead trees nearby. He usually kept about four cords of wood ready, which was more than enough, since he burnt about half a cord a month when he was staying there and he rarely stuck around for an entire winter. Of course he didn't stay inside all day long, the way the woman did, and he really hadn't expected her to require so much heating. He was burning wood as if the temps were down to the minus twenties and thirties! In freaking March! So maybe it wasn't the mildest Spring ever and nights got a bit colder, but still! What would she do if it were January? Sleep on top of the stove? They had been in Canada for three weeks and he had gone trough almost two cords.

He glanced at the woman, sitting on a thickly folded blanket on the porch, another blanket over her shoulders, plus a woolen cap, gloves… Anyone would think she was in the middle of the North Pole, when in reality the temperatures were up to 45ºF and were likely to reach the fifties in the early afternoon.

He split another piece of wood and straightened up. She was looking intently at him, although her attention had quickly moved from his actions to his body the moment he'd gotten rid of his shirt, having warmed up from the exercise. That was when he got a bright idea. He stuck the axe into the splitting block.

"Come here, girl. It's about time ya do somethin' ta earn yer keep."

Her expression hardened instantly, which was unexpected. She had never baulked at work before.

"OK, is enough," she said, getting up and coming closer.

Creed was at a loss to understand what was going on. She didn't look angry but she was definitely annoyed as she stopped in front of him and rested both fists on her hips.

"I look like a kid to you? A children?"

"Whatchya babblin' 'bout?"

" _Girl_ ," she spit through clench teeth, "is a children."

Oh, linguistic difficulties. Maybe he should get her a dictionary again.

"Child. Children is plural," he explained. "And 'girl' is any female."

She crossed her arms and got a slightly aloof expression, dismissive.

"OK, like you want. Just remember dis: when you talk to me, 'girl' means no sex never."

And she turned her back on him, marching straight back to the cabin. He laughed. Even through the blanket over her back he could tell his laughter had further pissed her. She kneeled down to pick the folded blanket, her back straight and her head high.

"Quit yer empty threats an' get yer ass back here, _woman_."

She looked back at him. Or better yet, she looked down at him. She had no idea how provocative that angry dismissiveness was, he decided. She put the blanket down and slid the other one off her back, before walking back to him. She still kept that almost royal stance, though, with her back straight and her chin level, slowly gliding through the snow.

"You _know_ I don't make emtpy threats," she said once she stopped on the other side of the wood stump. "What you want dat I do?"

He stepped around the stump and grabbed her by the waist, making her gasp and melting that distant expression of hers into a lusty half-smile.

"Ya're a fuckin' tease, ya know that?"

She barely had time to respond with a laugh before he kissed her, her gloved hands snaking down his back.

"But it's about time ya start makin' up fer all that wood ya're makin' me waste."

She giggled, eyes blazing impishly.

"I don't do dat every night?"

He let go of her and slapped her ass, though she probably barely felt anything over the layers of clothing.

"We're gettin' at least three cords o' wood stacked up in the next few days," he told her. "And _you_ 'll be doin'the stackin'. Nice an' proper. Com'on, I'll show ya how."

"Stack only?" She frowned theatrically. "I can't cut de wood?"

Creed lifted an eyebrow, surprised.

"Ya wanna chop wood?"

"Why not? Doesn't look difficult, and is probably good exercise, too."

"No, it ain't difficult," he agreed. "Ya just needs t'get the hang of it."

Though she was probably going to end up sore from the unusual exercise.

"Com'over here, then," he grinned.

He was thinking about pushing her hard and laughing his ass off when she woke up complaining about her every muscle the following morning, but, as Isabel's gloved hand slid eagerly over the handle of the axe, he reconsidered it. It wasn't in his best interest to get her that sore. The woman tried to pull the axe out of the block but failed.

"Here." He took it out. "Safety basics first. I don't give a shit 'bout 'em, but you have better never forget 'em, got it?"

"Ah," she grumbled. "So is going to be a boring class, den?"

Creed slapped her ass.

"Pay attention!"

But he was already starting to guess he wouldn't manage to finish all the cords he wanted that day.

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Yeah, I know: this one's a bit on the short side. Sorry about that. The size of these sketches varies wildly, I'm afraid.

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If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	3. Alberta: Easy Nicknames

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

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 **3\. Alberta: Easy Nicknames**

Creed stretched lazily. Outside, the birds were kicking up a racket as the sky started to become lighter. He glanced at the stove. Isabel would come back in from the outhouse shivering, despite having gone out buried under coats and blankets, and would no doubt want to start a proper fire. The thought of doing it for her flickered through his mind but he didn't feel like getting up. Yawning, he stretched again and made himself comfortable.

He was leaving the following day. He was still determined to get the woman an air-tight new identity, even if the process was proving to be slower and more irritating than he had expected. The thought of heading out to the city and diving into the morosity of bureaucracy made him feel lazy and sleepy. Sure, he could hire an expert to deal with the whole thing but then he'd have to kill the guy and expert document fakers get noticed when they disappear. People wonder which job got them killed and there's always the chance someone can find a loose end that wasn't well hidden. No. He wasn't taking chances.

The way to go was getting someone to do a step of the process, then do another step himself and get someone else for the next step and so on. Tiny steps, one by one, all apparently disconnected from one another and always using small time people, whom he could later kill without getting much attention. In this particular case, first of all, he'd identified an actual couple of Portuguese immigrants living in Canada that matched all the criteria he required and then found himself a middleman to start working on creating Isabel's identity in Portugal.

The second step had been to pay someone to issue a Family Visitor Visa for the immigrant couple's daughter, born and raised in Portugal, who had come in to stay for some months.

The trickiest part had been creating documents to prove she'd arrived several months earlier but it was done, including a paper trail of car and camping rentals. The easiest part had been paying someone to photoshop hundreds of images to be uploaded onto Isabel's new Facebook account, never fully showing her face, and tampered to have their meta-data indicate the appropriate geo and time stamps. Of course that guy was going to meet an early death when his house spontaneously combusted, right after his cloud was properly scoured for any stray copies. And once Creed had the photos, he could finally create her Facebook account.

After that, he'd have her apply for permanent residency using her supposed parents as sponsors, although they were never going to know about it. It was not going to be easy, since he didn't really have all the documents required, but he had gotten the name of a clerk who could give him a hand with that. The only problem was that he'd have to take Isabel along. Afterall, he couldn't keep her hidden in the woods forever.

He heard Isabel rushing through the snow and grinned. That woman had definitely not been born to live off the grid. She closed the door and hurried to the stove, where she soon had the fire going strong. To her credit, she had never uttered a single complaint, not even about the cold. She might groan a lot when she had to go to the out-house in the middle of the night, or when the weather wasn't at its friendliest, but she didn't gripe about it.

Isabel peeled off her coat after a few minutes warming up by the stove. He knew what was coming next: the woman's favourite method of warming up. He really didn't feel like leaving the following day.

She glanced back and smiled at him. She was always smiling these days, which was a great sign. It meant she wasn't in pain, whether physical or psychological. The more often she smiled, the sooner he could stop being so gentle. He had first decided to hold back for at least three months, but now he was sure he wouldn't need to wait that long. Another two weeks and it would be two months since he'd saved her. It would be enough.

Creed grinned as she sat on her haunches and slowly lifted her pyjama top over her head, but instead of coming over to him, she closed her eyes for a moment and moaned as she teasingly enjoyed the heat coming off the stove. He lay on his side and licked his fangs, which had the little minx giggling.

"That ain't much of a show." She stopped moaning for a moment. "Why don't ya play with yer tits fer me ta see, huh?"

Her smile morphed into a lopsided grin as she gazed straight at him.

"No," she said in a casual voice. "I prefer play wid oder things."

She mockingly bit her lower lip, staring straight at his eyes, and slipped a hand into her pyjama bottoms. Then she let her head fall back as she moaned.

"Yer fuckin' tease!" He grinned, still too lazy to go after the woman. "Get yer ass over here, Izzie."

The pet name had popped up in his head a few times already, but had never slipped out before. It fit her like a glove, he thought, so he was kind of surprised when the woman stood up with a shocked face. Linguistic problems again, he guessed.

"It's a pet name," he explained.

" _Pet_?"

Creed sat up the moment he heard the anger literally making her voice break. That reaction was way over the top.

"Not pet as in an animal," he said. "It's just short fer Isabel, that's all. Ya know, ya can call me Vic too, when there's no one around. Izzie, Vic, it's all the same kind o' thing."

Her fury did not abate. Creed didn't think he'd ever seen her so mad, not even when he'd called her frail, a few weeks before, and she'd blown that she wasn't a weakling doll about to break for him to call her frail, although not in those exact words, right before bursting into tears. Right now, she was actually shivering in rage and she was so pale anyone would think her on the verge of keeling over. He had no idea what could have caused such a reaction.

"What?" He ended up asking.

"You think I look _easy_?"

Creed groaned. It was always the same linguistic crap.

"I didn't say 'easy'; I said Izzie. It's two completely different words."

Her glare could have killed. It was hate, disdain and disgust rolled into a withering force. Enticing.

"Listen: easy; Izzie. Can't ya hear the difference?"

And then it ocurred to him that she was constantly mixing up beach and bitch, sheet and shit, leave and live…

"It's two completely different sounds an' two completely different words."

"You call me _dat_ again and, I _promise_ you, I leave dis house and you _never_ see me again."

Fine, whatever!

"Then I'll call ya Belle." He said it without thinking, but the moment the name rolled off he could have grimaced. It sounded all wrong for the woman. "That's yer new nickname."

She breathed out fiercely. Good. He'd let her shoot down that name while he thought up another one that fit her better. Let's see… Isa? Ibbie?

"You take de day to offend me? First is easy dat isn't easy, den is bell. You think I look like a bell?"

"It ain't bell like a church bell, ya ass. It's with the French spelling, with an e at the end."

Bellsy? He'd heard that before somewhere but… Elle or Ella, maybe. Ellie.

"Listen: I have two names, ok? Isabel and Inês. You call me one or you call me de oder, e acabou. Fineesh."

Creed snarled at her. He was trying to think up a proper nickname here and she was not helping. Maybe a Spanish one, like Chabela or Chabelita.

"Or call me woman. I can leave wid dat."

"It's _live_ , not leave. And ya _are_ gonna have a nickname an' that's the end of it, got it?"

She crossed her arms under her naked breasts and his mind got distracted for a moment before going back to business. Lizzie. That was a good option, unless she got it into her head it sounded too much like Izzie and tried to storm out.

"Not Isa and not Bé" the woman grunted, her arms still crossed and her voice sulky. "Belita and Belinha, never. Dat is hit in de head in Portuguese."

And she slapped her head lightly to exemplify.

"If you prefer go wid Inês," she continued, "everything minus Nênê."

Well, since pretty much all nicknames for Isabel had been shot down, Creed thought about Inês. The Portuguese sound, Eenesh, opened itself to Ina, which could quickly become Inny, but he didn't like either. The Spanish had the traditional Inesita. Maybe. He tried it out loud.

"Ok," Isabel reacted with an annoyed shrug. "You can call me Inesita."

It was rather long though.

"No, I prefer Nesita." The woman rolled her eyes but didn't say anything against it. It was still a bit longish though. "Or Nesi."

Isabel shrugged again and picked up her pyjama top.

"Call me what you want. Nesi, Nesita. You decide." She put on the top and walked over to the cupboard. "I go make breakfast."

No fun and games this morning, then. Why did she have to be such a moron when it came to the language?

"Coffee fer me," he flopped back onto the mattress. "Strong. And bacon."

"But, Victor…"

Now what? He glanced her way. She had a frying pan in her hand and was looking intently at him. Not annoyed or sulky, though.

"You only call me dat here, when we're alone, right? Because only you know my real name. No one else, only you. _No one_ can know my real name, remember?"

Yeah, yeah. She belonged to him so only he could know her true identity. He remembered the childish pact of hers. No sweat.

"Ya think I'd let anyone hear me call ya dumb sappy names?"

Still, it was a pitty. Izzie would have fitted her so perfectly.

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I know, this one was short, too. But next chapter will be longer. Hopefully, it'll make clear just what the hell Isabel sees in Creed.

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If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	4. Alberta: Paradoxes

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

Hi, there! Since Hidden Years has a ton of chapters, determining how Creed and Isabel's relationship evolved from abusive to... let's call it near-civilised, I've decided to start uploading two chapters a week. I'll upload on Wednesday (evening) and Sunday (whenever I get the chance to sit at the computer, which can vary greatly).

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 **4\. Alberta: Paradoxes**

Isabel would never get used to this: dry cabins. How on earth could anyone enjoy living in a dry cabin? It was beyond her. And yet, there she was: getting water from a jug onto a pot to heat up, and then pouring it over the lunch plates, piled up in a mini-sink which leaked into a bucket. Grey water bucket, Victor had called it. What was the whole point of it?

Not that she was going to stoop down to complain for anyone to hear. She didn't even allow herself to groan the slightest sound of annoyance near his ears. This was a temporary hiding place, after all. Why complain against something that's temporary, especially if it is keeping one safe? She had voiced her opinion once – because this was not a hygienic or sanitary arrangement anywhere in the world – and had not mentioned the topic ever again.

Although she did groan – very audibly – every time she had to use the out-house in the middle of the night or when it was snowing or, even worse, when it was raining. It was beyond her strength. She had used communal toilets in camping parks, the closest thing she'd ever seen to an out-house, but those had had proper sewers and running water, not to mention that it had been in summer. Portuguese summer. Temperatures never below the 60 mark not even in the coldest night, and definitely no rain in the horizon, ever. Well, maybe once, but that had been a freak accident of nature.

Ah, Portugal!

Isabel sighed at the plates as she poured clean water over them, to wash away the detergent.

If Victor were to…

She stopped and organised her ideas. He was not going to let her away from him. She was his woman – a decision she'd made herself – and he was not the type of guy to let go of something that belonged to him. Not while she was alive, at any rate.

But what if…

She had been supposed to go back to Wausau. He hadn't been constantly around, back then. He'd come and go; he'd stay away for weeks and months, stick around for days and weeks. When she had made that decision, to leave the X-Men and go back to live with him, she knew what it meant.

First of all, it meant she'd never have a family. Parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, nephews and nieces, godparents and godchildren… That was the family she'd lost and would never get back. She could have married into one, but not once she'd become Victor's woman. And she couldn't have children. Family was definitely off any plan.

It also meant she couldn't have close friends. Sure she'd be free most of the time to do as she pleased, within the boundaries he saw fit to set, and then she'd get to play houses when he stopped by, but close friends share bits and pieces of their lives, and how could Isabel ever present a friend to Victor? The man would go nuts at the prospect of such a thing. She could just see him, raging about the unnecessarily dangerous breach in security. In his head, complete seclusion was the safest option. Seriously! And anyway, how could she ever forge a close friendship if she had to always keep her private life under tight wraps?

Wherever Victor decided it was safe for her to live in, she would always end up living much like in this cabin: alone. Absolutely alone.

Well, at least she'd have running water and electricity. And a proper bathroom! Friends or no friends, any civilised town was better than living in a backwater cabin.

But what if, in a year or so, Victor got fed up with keeping her? Or what if he decided Portugal was the safest place for her to live in? Good food, proper weather, and a language she could understand. It would be easier to make friends, there, in a community she knew and understood. She would know how to balance sharing and hiding parts of her life. She would know how to…

Only, Portugal… These woods were home for Victor, and Portugal couldn't be further from this godforsaken place in every little thing. In his head, Portugal would never be a safe place for her because he didn't know the place and the culture well enough to feel in control of the situation. Home is always a safe haven. If Victor wanted her safe, he would keep her near his home, not hers. In the woods. There are lost towns in the middle of the woods. With electricity, sewers and running water, hopefully. She could only suppose he'd take her to one such town, eventually. But what are people like in such towns? What are houses like? What is life like?

Whenever she thought about her future, Isabel always ended up unable to picture her life. It unnerved her, to face a blank future. She needed to organise her life, feel herself back on her own two feet, stable and strong. But there was only uncertainty. First, Victor had to finish getting her documents, her new identity; then he'd find her a house. But where? When? What type of house and neighbourhood? That was not important. Not for him, anyway.

It wasn't that she couldn't understand his wisdom of living in the present. There's more freedom and fewer worries, that's for sure. No uncertain future to fret about; no unpleasant past to regret. She could definitely understand its appeal. Obviously, though, she couldn't do it. Present does not exist without a past, no matter how unpleasant, and to forsake the future was to go through life blindly. It was not for her.

Even her attack. It had happened and it could not be erased. Victor seemed to expect her to forget about it, but how could she? It was as part of her life as her beloved childhood and youth. No. She had to face it, make peace and then put it aside. Not to be forgotten, but to keep out of the way. There were worse things that could have happened after all. She had gone through pain – such terrible pain! – but that had been it. She should even look back at the whole experience and feel glad she had come out of it physically unscathed. Or nearly physically unscathed. She was confident that, once she was able to look at the whole thing in that light, the nightmares would vanish for good. That sickening phantom of an unwanted touch slithering through her skin.

Isabel shook her head with a shiver of repulsion. She was dawdling! With an air-clearing exhale, she finished the dishes and wiped the sink clean. Then she dried the tableware and put it away. Finally, she got the grey water bucket and took it outside to get rid of as Victor had taught her to do.

The door whined like a child. Victor still hadn't oiled the hinges, though he kept saying he had to. Sitting on the old wooden deck, gaze lost in the woods ahead, the man acted as if he hadn't heard anything.

Isabel hesitated just a second as the smile bubbled to her lips. He reminded her of a boy, sometimes. He'd leave for Toronto early in the day, he had said, a week ago or so. The evening before, he had told her he'd leave immediately after lunch. And today, here he was: enjoying his wooded peace and quiet as if he hadn't planned to be long gone by now. A boy who does what he pleases when it pleases him. He only ever followed his plans to a T when he absolutely had to. Like when he had a job with a specific deadline or something like that. Although, to be fair, once he started on a course of action there was no stopping him. Whether he stuck to the plan or sent it to hell, he'd have his will done. She'd been with him long enough to know that. Flexible. Guess living in the present means you're flexible above all.

As Isabel walked by his side, on her way to empty the bucket, the man once more failed to react to her. He had his elbows on his knees and he seemed to be utterly relaxed, a lazy bottle of beer in his hand and gaze steady on the trees. Even as she walked past him again. She might have been an invisible ghost.

The smile was still on her face as she placed the bucket in its place. Isabel was grateful for the man's apparent disregard, because she knew it was apparent and that it wasn't disregard at all. Back in Wausau, he had never ignored her. Not once, whether she was coming into view or out of view, had he acted as if she wasn't there. He had always glanced her way, often a slight frown, his eyes always studying her, measuring her gestures, guessing her intentions. Now, though, it was as if he trusted her. Now, he accepted her presence around him. Maybe even welcomed it.

The man often sat on the deck, especially after the meals. A beer never too far off. Up until today, Isabel had respected such moments of contemplation, keeping away from him even if she longed to sit alongside him. Because she always did. Neverthless, she didn't want to impose herself on him and it was usually too cold to sit on that deck for too long anyway. She only ever did it when he was chopping wood. It was never too cold, then.

Today, though, the sky was clear and the afternoon sun was gracing the deck with… well, to be honest, that inviting sunshine probably had very little warmth, but Isabel was tired of the fire stove. She got her personal deck kit – a thick, soft blanket to sit on and a light, warm one to put over her shoulders – and supplemented it with two beers, then she went out and placed both bottles next to Victor. He did not react. She climbed down the two steps of the deck and adjusted the seat-blanket at a careful distance from Victor, neither close nor far. Finally, she opened the second blanket and covered herself before sitting down.

Ah, the sun was warm after all!

She felt the smile spread across her face at the warmth, but not the sun's. It felt good to sit like this, side by side, in silent contemplation. No words, no glances. Just that steady presence, the nearly unaudible breathing, the sound of the beer dancing within the bottle every time he took it to his lips. Isabel felt a shiver up her spine. It was heavenly! She wondered if he would say something, eventually. She hoped he did, even if she wanted the silent presence to last.

She used to sit on her grandmother's doorstep, when she was a little girl. She would come from school to grandma Lilia's for bread with butter and some milk, and find her crocheting on the stone doorsteps. They'd sit there in silence, the two of them, until Isabel felt ready to tell grandma what had pleased or annoyed her during the day, or until grandma decided to spin a tale from her younger days.

The deck of the cabin was wood, not stone; and Isabel's companion was not old grandma Lilia but a man who possessed as many secrets as, to a child's eyes, the quiet grandma had possessed. For as long as they sat there, silently, just enjoying eachother's presence, Isabel felt a little bit as if she was home.

How odd, wasn't it? To feel home just because she was sitting at Victor's side. Would it still feel a bit like home if it were any other person?

Isabel took a deep breath and tried to focus on the trees ahead. What could possibly entrance Victor in that landscape? The quiet and the peacefulness, perhaps. She'd rather a bit more movement. Watching people going by, perhaps. Neighbours. Putting together the puzzle of their lives from afar.

Perhaps he was puzzling together the lives of the neighbouring animals. Maybe he could follow their movements from sound and scent, while she was limited to vision alone. She'd like that, to be able to know what type of animals lived nearby and their routines. Maybe he'd suddenly tell her there was a squirrel going up and down that particular tree to feed its young. She'd really like something like that. Actual people would have far more interesting and puzzling lives, naturally, but squirrels and… what other animals could live here? Eagles and hawks?

Isabel got one of the two bottles standing between her and Victor, her body very keenly aware that her hand had come so very close to his body, and popped the cap. The drink was cold but, wrapped up in the blanket and bathing in the weak sunlight, she could enjoy its cold bitterness.

"I've been wonderin' where all my beers been disappearin' to."

Huh? Victor was looking at her sideways, not a shadow of a smile or grin, but his voice was amused and her heart paused alongside her breathing for a fleeting instant.

"Dis is de first beer I drink here," she told him, a stupid blush heating up her cheeks. "And you _know_ dat, Mister Victor."

He chuckled and swapped his now empty bottle for the full one.

Isabel held back the sigh that filled her chest.

It was stupid. Was that what love felt like? Stupidity? Because, once upon a time, she had admitted to having a crush on the man. Lust, he had called it. The hots. No loving feelings, but simply a physical reaction. Horniness. All very sexual and heartless. She had told herself over and over that the man was right. Horniness and no finer feelings at all.

And yet she remembered that poem she'd studied at school: love is a fire that burns unseen, a wound that aches yet isn't felt, an always discontent contentment, a pain that rages without hurting. Opposites and paradoxes, that's love. At least in that poem. And Isabel… Isabel sat there, calmly gazing at those boring trees, and she felt her heart beating in a rush. She was thrilled that he'd returned to his contemplative silence by her side yet hoped he'd say something to her again. And it was stupid because, when he had provoked her just a moment ago, she had wished for him to go back to silence so she could enjoy his quiet presence.

But how could it be love? She barely knew the man! Knowing how he liked his house kept, or his food cooked did not count. Nor did it count knowing a few of the things that sent him berserk or that amused him. And she must keep in mind how very few of those latter ones she knew. She did not know the man well enough to be in love. It was still a harmless infatuation. And more lust than infatuation, too.

Isabel breathed out the excitement raging in her heart. Or at least tried to.

Stokholm syndrome! That could be it. Add horniness to the mix and it explained everything. Because he made her body burst into flame with the slightest touch, a hungry glance, a… Hell, even in his sleep he could get her in the mood. When she woke up before him and he was still asleep, relaxed and naked from the waist up. Naked from the waist down too, as he always slept stark naked under the blankets. And he knew it. He knew the power he had and, worse, he knew it was easy to get her wet. That Izzie nickname he'd come up with was a clear indication. No matter how supposedly different those sounds were supposed to be, easy and Izzie, any sane person would connect one and the other. And although she could live with him thinking she was easy to arouse, hell would freeze over before she'd allow anyone else to as much as dream it.

Isabel took another sip from the bottle and rested her elbows on her knees. (Ah, they were almost mirroring eachothers' position!) She could feel it, even if he was a palm away from her. The power and strength of the man. All her life she had loved bulls because of the raw power they irradiate: wild and proud. Solid. Unstoppable. As mighty as a thunderstorm or the breaking waves of Nazaré. As uncaring as nature on the wake of a devastating storm. One wrong move, and those piercing horns would either mark you for life or actually kill you. It is all the same for the bull. One wrong move. All her life she'd loved the tension of calling out to the bulls, the excitement of evading their charge. She felt strong and powerful every time she faced them and came away unscathed. Hell, she felt even more exhilarated when she came away limping and bleeding, but standing on her own. Four scars, she had collected in her youth, and she was proud of every one of them.

Victor made her feel almost the same. That body of his was as solid, as mighty and as unstoppable. His soul was as wild, as proud, as uncaring. It sent shivers up her spine, because he was life and death all rolled into one and that made her feel intensely alive. It made her feel giddy with the possibilities. And it made her feel so absolutely safe. Ah, another paradox!

Ever since she could remember, she had wanted to touch a bull. Even as a child she had known it was insane. Even today! But once she was a teenager and could play with the bulls in the streets, she had done it. Once, she had actually placed the palm of her hand on the face of the bull and kept it there for a second which still felt like an eternity in her memories. The price had been a long scar on her arm, which had ended up broken, two broken ribs and bruises everywhere. It had been so worth it. The bargain of a lifetime.

Isabel focused her gaze on the towering trees.

She couldn't help but feel the urge to touch Victor. Not physically, though. That wouldn't have been a challenge. It wouldn't have been dangerous. But her heart fluttered at the thought. To touch his… she wouldn't be foolish and say his heart. The man's was either made of ice or stone, if he even possessed a heart. His soul. She wanted to touch his soul and to hell with the price.

She wanted to touch his soul and his heart.

To make him hers.

Isabel took a long sip to cool down the feverish madness of such a thought.

But she couldn't help wondering… if he were to suddenly say 'go'. Go home to Portugal and forget everything. Remake your life. Get married, have children, raise a family. Let's imagine for a moment that she could have children. Find a man and start a new family, he'd say, in another universe. Where would she ever meet a man that could make her feel like he did? What other man could ever make her heart and her body react the way he did?

She thought of Miguel. She had thought she loved him, once upon an even older time. They had even entertained thoughts of marriage. She had loved being with him. After Victor, though, men like Miguel were nothing more than dust. To be courted by one would have made her despise him; to be touched by one would have sickened her. Weak and lifeless, powerless, insignificant. Because even if she had loved Miguel (or had thought she did), she had always known she was stronger than him. Just as she'd been brought up, she had allowed him to think he made all the important choices. She had allowed him to feel that he was stronger than her, her protector. She had allowed him to think he controlled her. But when she got mad, when she told him 'it's _this_ way', when she glared at him, when he hesitated in a conflict and she took over… he had always known he must bow to her. He had never been able to face her anger. Had never been able to stand his ground.

No boy she had ever met could. Because every other male was nothing more than a boy next to Victor. The Victor she could never say was hers.

If only she could touch his heart and soul… a moment. Just a moment. Then he'd be hers. Even if only for that fleeting moment.

Isabel took a greedy gulp.

Suppose he set her free.

She didn't want him to.

She wanted to be near him. Near the strength and power that made her feel alive and safe. She wanted to feel his hands on her body. She wanted him to sit by her side, silent and steady. She wanted him whispering her name under the covers and actually calling her that stupid nickname, Nesi, Nesita, even if she kept telling him she didn't like it. She wanted…

"There's a doe around."

Isabel's heart fluttered in stupid happiness that he had indeed shared what he was seeing, or smelling, or... uh… what's a doe? Probably an animal, at any rate.

"Dat is good or bad?"

Victor shrugged. His gaze was still on the trees.

"I was thinkin' I might as well hunt it down. It's been hangin' 'round fer a couple o' days already, and it'd be nice t'have some fresh meat."

It was the fifth time he casually told her what he was planning to do. Not as in 'I hereby inform you because you must be aware of it' but as in 'I have no reason to tell you this but I feel like doing it anyway'. The fifth time in a month and the second in that week.

Isabel was so thrilled she couldn't think of anything to say until he put the second empty bottle on the deck and got up. He didn't even look at her. He simply started walking away. It was as if the sun had suddenly disappeared and the warmth had turned to ice. It was as if comfort and safety were suddenly replaced with loneliness and insecurity.

"Can I go too?"

The request was out before she could think twice. Victor turned abruptly with a surprised expression.

"What? Ya wanna got _hunt_ the doe?"

Right. Stupid idea, huh? He had taught her how to track, but hunting…

"Yeah! Why not?"

Like hell was she going to admit she'd spoken stupidly. Why couldn't she learn to hunt anyway? If he was going to keep her a prisoner of the woods, she might as well.

Victor looked at her thoughtfully then glanced at the trees. When he looked back at her, he was scratching his neck.

"Does are fidgety. It'd probably hear ya an' take off 'fore I could get close enough ta snatch it."

Duh! _Stupid_. He knew how to walk silently in the woods so he could jump an animal, much like wolves and bears and… predators, in general, do. All she could do was make a racket and spook away any likely prey.

"Ah, right! Sorry. Didn't think about dat." Because she was _stupid_. "Don't want destroy your hunt."

"No, no! Actually, it's a good idea." Really? "Tell ya what, I prob'bly couldn't hunt it an' skin it and quarter it all, an' still take off t' Toronto 'fore nightfall anyway, so I'll hunt it down when I get back. Better yet, I can get ya a riffle and ya can hunt it yerself."

Isabel felt a wave of cold wash over her even if her cheeks were burning almost painfully. He was giving up hunting the animal and offering to let _her_ hunt it?

"If ya want to."

Was he kidding?

"Yes, yes!"

Of course she wanted to! He went out to hunt, or recognise the terrain, or track animals, or clear his head, or whatever he did when he took off from the cabin on foot, while she was always stuck in the house, near the woodstove. Did he have the slightest idea how much she ached to go with him? Even if it was cold and wet and snowy. It was worth it just to be near him!

"Are ya sure?" He grinned mockingly. "Ya know ya can't take the stove with ya and I don't want ya dyin' o' cold or anythin'."

What did she care about cold when she would be with him? She laughed delightedly.

"I take an extra blanket."

Victor chuckled and shook his head, which got her wondering if he was only teasing her.

"I'm serious, Victor. I want go hunt wid you. And learn to take de skin and prepare de meat and dat all." Especially if he was more relaxed and chatty while hunting, as she suspected he would be. "I _really_ want."

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.

"Ok, then. I'll get ya a riffle and we'll go out first thing when I get back."

She nodded excitedly.

Or perhaps he wouldn't be chatty. Perhaps he would give her basic instructions and they would just wander through the snowy land in conspiratory silence, united in their hunting mission. That would be even better.

"Go get my bag, will ya? I might as well take off t' Toronto 'fore it gets any later."

* * *

Poem by the Portuguese poet Luís Vaz de Camões (1524-1580)

Translation by Richard Zenith taken from pi/site/poem/item/8436/auto/0/Love-is-a-fire-that-burns-unseen

Love is a fire that burns unseen,  
a wound that aches yet isn't felt,  
an always discontent contentment,  
a pain that rages without hurting,

a longing for nothing but to long,  
a loneliness in the midst of people,  
a never feeling pleased when pleased,  
a passion that gains when lost in thought.

It's being enslaved of your own free will;  
it's counting your defeat a victory;  
it's staying loyal to your killer.

But if it's so self-contradictory,  
how can Love, when Love chooses,  
bring human hearts into sympathy?

Note: This is one of the basic school staples of Portuguese literature. One can flunk at Portuguese and still know the first line of the poem. If one's keen on poetry, one may know the first stanza, but that's less common.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	5. Alberta: A Blessing and A Curse

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **5\. Alberta: A Blessing and A Curse**

Isabel sat on the mattress rocking to and fro in the darkness.

"Ya're safe."

Victor's voice resounded in her head.

"There's no one gonna hurt ya ever again."

She closed her eyes and willed her whole body to relive the memory: his strong arms around her, forcing away the phantom pain of her nightmares.

"I'll keep ya safe with me."

His voice steady and soothing, his body solid and comforting.

"Ya're safe."

She never said his words aloud. She wanted his voice more than the words, and to speak them herself might erode the memory of his voice.

"Estás segura."

Spanish.

"Estarás siempre segura, mi Nesita."

He made Spanish sound so soothing. Spanish, of all languages! And to think she had never liked Spanish.

"Hoy e siempre."

Isabel wiped the tears from her face with a hand.

"Segura. Safe."

She knew that.

"Segura."

Once the phantom pain started fading, she always told him to stop it. He didn't have to treat her like a scared baby. She didn't like it.

"Shush."

And she'd shush.

That had been back in Mexico. She had started pushing him away, and very violently too, when they'd come to Canada. She did not want him to think she was a scared baby. She wanted him to see she was strong, that she could stand on her own two feet, that she could get over nightmares, fears and pain all by herself.

"Ya're safe."

He still said it though. In whispers. Waking her up before the nightmares got too strong.

"Estás segura."

Or as she was falling asleep. He whispered it then, too. She closed her eyes and pretended she was asleep and that was why she didn't tell him to shut up, because she was no baby in need of reassurance.

"Safe."

And she fell asleep with his deep voice vibrating through her whole being.

"Segura."

No nightmares. No phantom pain.

"Safe."

"Stop it." She told the darkness of the cabin, illuminated by an orangy-red glow from the woodstove. "I'm not a baby. I'm fine."

"Shush." He answered in her memory. Like a script. "Shush."

And she would shush. But she would also snake her hands over his body, kiss his chest.

Sex. He had wanted her for sex, from the beginning. After the attack, she had been afraid of shying away from his touch but he had turned out to be very accommodating and patient. Not once, down in Mexico, had he made the slightest advance. But she had felt bad about it. He had wanted her for sex, and she had agreed to it. A bit eagerly even. And now…

Still, his arms and body were so soothing and comforting, she decided she might as well get it inside her head that sex with the man would just be even more soothing and comforting. She'd told herself that over and over and over. Even as she woke up sickened with the memories of the rape. She forced the idea inside that stubborn skull of hers and, once they had started up on their way to Canada, she had made the advance herself.

It had worked like a charm.

So now, when he told her to shush, she swapped soothing words that made her look weak in his eyes for soothing sex that made her feel more of an asset in his eyes. At least she hoped so.

Isabel got up and went over to the woodstove.

She hadn't told him the nightmares were worse when he was away. The only thing she had said was that nights were getting better. And it was true! The first night he'd left her alone, almost a month ago, she had woken up three times, crying in pain. This time around, she had slept the first two nights of his trip just fine. The nightmares had only struck on the third and Victor was supposed to return the next day so… Everything was fine.

She arranged the wood inside the stove, making sure it was still generating enough heat, and returned to the mattress.

God, she hated this cabin!

It didn't seem so bad when Victor was around but, staying all alone there… She hated it.

She wrapped herself in the blankets and told herself 'no more nightmares'.

Because living off the grid in a Canadian Spring that had very little of Spring was more than enough nightmare, even if less painful. Isabel hated the snow but, now that the temperatures during the day were indeed warmer, she hated the mud much more intensely. It was everywhere and it was freezing cold. Isabel even avoided leaving the deck area, despite sitting on it to get a bit of sun, just so she wouldn't get shoes and clothes covered in mud that would muddy the entire cabin and make laundry an even worse nightmare. Because she had to heat up water to do the laundry. Normally dirty clothes were bad enough to wash by hand with the required regularity; muddy clothes were another level of bad altogether.

She had even cut down on kitchenware for their meals, at least as much as possible, because washing pots and dishes meant grey water and grey water meant emptying the bucket at a bit of a distance.

Oh, and she hated, more intensely than anything, she hated the outhouse. Especially because there was only so little one could do to avoid going to the outhouse.

She had to talk to Victor. She didn't know when her new papers and documents would be ready but surely he could find a place to hide her that had proper running water and sewers! She could live without electricity if need be, but not without proper toilets and showers.

Isabel remembered her grandmas' stories about life way back then, when there were no water pipes, no sewer pipes. Interesting to hear about, sure, but not to live through. And at least none of her gradmas had ever lived in really cold countries.

She got off the mattress to get her phone and hurried back. It was barely four. Way too early. She didn't feel sleepy, though, so she considered what to do. She could send Victor a message… Only he had told her, back in Wausau, that she should only contact him in an emergency.

Chewing on the thought of sending obedience to hell, she considered what she would text, if she happened to decide to send him a text.

"I want you here."

She looked at the text in Portuguese. Much too blunt, much too demanding, much too needy. What did she want anyway?

"I miss your company."

It was true but it would probably sound whiny to him.

"Nights are boring without you."

And days too. She could send that to him.

"You always complain about my PJs but tonight I'm naked. Isn't it a pity you aren't here?"

She giggled. That would also be a good one to send him, especially as he wouldn't know it wasn't true.

What was she doing? Isabel groaned and switched off the phone. What on earth was she doing?

She did not feel like having sex at all, even if she would have willingly provoked the man into it, should he be around. She really only wanted him nearby.

Was this simply because he made her feel safe? Maybe. But she didn't feel particularly insecure, not out here all alone. The only danger was running out of wood or water and he had left the place well stocked. In fact, Isabel even felt ready to face people again. Sure, she had appreciated the lack of people in the first weeks; it had helped her rebound. But now she was ready to go back to civilisation. To crowds even. Men. On their way up to Canada, coming from Mexico, she had noticed her nervousness peaked whenever a man stood too close. Not that many had had the chance, not with Victor always next to her, but she had felt uncomfortable. But now that her dreams were less unruly, it was time to face that nervousness to make sure she got completely over her trauma.

So why was she so obsessed with having Victor nearby?

Stockholm syndrome, her mind reminded her. Or knight-in-shining-armour syndrome, if it existed.

"It's called a resteless pussy," her grandma's voice burst out of nowhere.

"Grandma!"

The old woman had been in her early eighties back then.

"What Grandma, girl! You're fifteen. You're old enough to stop acting all shy and naïve. It's all very well and nice to keep the act with the boys, at least they _say_ they like it; but here, in between us, call things by their proper names. You're not a baby. What your friend has is not a bad case of undying love; it's a restless pussy."

Isabel had been sitting in Grandma Lilia's kitchen, as it was raining outside, and rolled her eyes. Why did everyone dismiss Ana's feelings?

"No, grandma. She's really, badly in love. Head over feet. _Believe_ me."

Grandma Lilia waved her hand in impatience.

"Being in love is nothing more than a restless pussy, girl. Mark my words. Once one of them gets their itch satisfied, it'll be all over."

Isabel had shrugged her shoulders, annoyed. Once the old woman got something in her head, there was no changing it.

"To love someone and to be in love," Grandma Lilia had carried on, "are two completely different things. Being in love makes us blind to a man's faults; to love, means that you see all the faults but choose to ignore them. At least most of the time. Does your friend recognise this boy's faults or is he more perfect than an angel?"

Isabel had shrugged. Ana had been the first of her friends to swoon badly over a boy. He was a year older, popular and cool; she was self-confident and a good friend of his sister. They'd gotten together easily.

"Of course she sees his faults!" Even if she had never mentioned them. "But she doesn't care about them because she loves him. Just like you said."

"Uh-huh. And is she thinking about living with him?"

"Grandma! She's _fifteen_!"

The woman shook her head.

"I was fourteen and had my wedding all organised in my head. And keep in mind it was not your grandfather. I fell head over feet over this boy who was the greatest jerk who ever lived and, thank God!, he lost interest in me when another girl agreed to scratch his itch before I was dumb enough to do it. It was her undoing, too. Things in my time were not like today."

Isabel had been so stricken with the revelation she had almost forgotten the misunderstood Ana.

"To me, when I was 14, marriage meant freedom to be with the boy. To get in bed with him. Today, I wouldn't have dreamed of marrying. I'd have dreamed of finding a house we could get in without the neighbours noticing. That is not love. I knew I loved your grandfather when I fantasised living with him. Cooking for him. Organising the house so he'd say I was the best woman he could have chosen. I wanted to talk to him. The other one, the sound of his voice was enough; I couldn't care about what he said or even if he heard anything I said. Your grandfather… I didn't just want to hear him, I wanted to understand everything he said and I wanted him to understand me. To hail me up as the only woman who was worthy of being with."

Ana had drawn hearts and written his name endlessly. She'd die if they couldn't hold hands for at least five minutes every day.

And Isabel? She couldn't care less when Victor called her stupid and dumbass – she knew full well he threw insults the same way most people said 'good morning' – but she loved it when he listened to her. And even though his voice resounded inside her, she always listened carefully, guessing whether he was just informing her of something or whether he was actually sharing his thoughts. Did that count as love or as being in love?

Ever since Wausau, she had wanted him to praise her cooking and housekeeping. She had always wanted him to think she was the best cook and housekeeper he'd ever find. But was that love or professional ambition, of sorts?

"To love a man is to know him, the good and the bad, and to accept both, because you can't change a man."

Well, she accepted the bad. He was a murderer and a professional killer and a… Anyway, it didn't bother her that much so… that meant she accepted his bad things, right? Even if she did wish he would change some things. But those things could be seen more like… like ingrained ways of protecting his privacy and his feelings. All she wanted was for him to let her in and allow her to meet the real Victor Creed, not just the front he offered the world. That didn't count as wanting to change him, did it?

"To love a man means that you are willing to make sacrifices to see him happy, but it also means you can choose which sacrifices are worth it because you're not obsessed with fulfilling his every wish. It means that you'll say 'yes' most of the time, but you'll also say 'no, period' when you have to."

She could do that, no problem. Set limits, she meant. Sure, she had to be nice and subtle about it, and she couldn't just throw a 'no' to his face unless it was something very serious. Like calling her frail, or girl and Easy Izzie. She might bow down to his wishes but it was only because, first of all, she was grateful to him for saving her, and secondly, because… because she wanted to see him happy. He was relaxed and playful when he was happy.

"Love, my girl, is such a troublesome thing!"

Yes, and it started with deciding whether one loved or not.

"It brings out your true self: whether you're a coldhearted person, impulsive, self-effacing, insecure, scared, possessive… it brings it all out."

"And me, grandma?"

"When you come to love a man?" Grandma Lilia had laughed. "Oh, my darling! I pity the man you'll set your eyes on. Stubborn and possessive as you are, you'll have to tread very carefully or you'll turn him into a little puppet at your command. It's never a good thing to smash a man under our command. Men were born to feel in control. Let him, or his love can easily become hate."

Isabel embraced her knees. Victor Creed could never be turned into anyone's puppet. And she didn't want to turn any man into her puppet, anyway. Grandma Lilia might have preached about it a few times when her relationship with Miguel became serious, but even then, Isabel had not been on her way to turn the guy into a puppet. She had simply been... training him on how to properly treat a girlfriend-about-to-be-something-else.

"Love makes your body burn. Not like being in love; it's different. When you're in love, the heat burns fast and very hot. You can't hold hands and not think if only you were in the bedroom. But when you love, the heat burns slowly and long. Sometimes you don't even have to touch; just his presence is enough to satisfy you. And making love stops being something you rush into, as if time was going to run out; it becomes a deep pleasure, rather than just skin-deep."

And where was she in that respect? Because sex was also… therapy, if she was being honest. It was probably why she never got tired of it: morning sex, lunch sex, night sex, any time sex… Part of her was aware that the more she was in for sex, the more the man would like her. He never got tired, after all, and he'd probably regret having chosen her to be his woman if all of a suddenly she started saying she was tired and didn't want to get laid. Not that she felt that way, not the way part of her was so obssessed with forgetting about all the bad things through sex. The truth was that, the busier she was having sex, the less she thought about the past or the future or… her current lack of conditions. It made the whole world go away, all the trouble, all everything. So much so that, when she kissed the man and asked him to make the world go away, he already knew exactly what she wanted.

"Sometimes… sometimes love makes you feel cold. You look at him and you see him as a broken man or unhappy. You look at him and you see all the things that make him who he is and… and you coldly decide you wouldn't live with anyone else no matter what."

If Victor were to let her go… she could icily claim she wouldn't live with any other man. He was the only one that made her feel alive.

"Being in love makes you feel… it's like being at a party and dancing wildly and… it's like fireworks. It's intense and fantastic for five minutes and then it's gone. But love is forever. It can become hate, but it doesn't disappear. Love… is like the birds. They are always singing beautifully but sometimes you stop noticing them. But it's always there. You just have to listen."

Victor made her feel alive in a way few things did. And it sure was intense. But it wasn't like fireworks. He made her feel alive just by existing. It made her feel in control.

"Love makes you the happiest person in the world… and the unhappiest too. When love makes you hurt, life becomes monotonous. You carry on, but everything is bland. Nothing else can touch you deep inside."

Life was definitely bland when Victor was away.

"Love, my darling, is a blessing and a curse, all at the same time."

Grandma Lilia had had tears running down her cheeks at that time. Isabel had known why. Her husband, the grandfather Isabel had barely gotten to meet as a young child, had died over ten years before and the couple had always been known to be very much in love. Isabel had embraced Grandma Lilia and held her tight. Had thought she didn't want to love a man for real, not if it meant such a deep sadness as her Grandma Lilia had. As her mother, a widow after a marriage of six fleeting years. No. Best to live unblessed and uncursed.

"Where does this leave me, Grandma," Isabel asked the night. "Am I in love with him?"

But she wasn't. His presence might make her feel happy, but she didn't go crazy like her friend Ana, back when they were fifteen. Like most of her friends in the following years. She was not obsessed or blind. She did not get stupidly happy, all flowers and unicorns, when he talked to her. She might speak without thinking and say stupid stuff, but that was because he distracted her. When he was nice. Attentive. Thoughtful. She felt grateful, not 'wee, so happy I could die'. No. She was not in love.

"Does that mean I love him?"

Because she did like him, but like is not love. She didn't want it to be.

But imagine… imagine he came back and said his situation had changed. That she was to go to Portugal and forget everything. Live her life. Or imagine he died. (God forbid!) She would be completely free. Meet a man, marry, have a family…

A bland life. Monotonous and uninteresting. Simply going through the motions.

The bulls were fireworks: powerful and crazy and shortlived. Victor, on the other hand… just thinking about him made her feel alive. It was less crazy but more insane; less powerful but so much more intense. Steadier and more far-reaching. So much better.

So she loved him?

Isabel lay under the blankets, gazing blindly at the ceiling beyond the darkness.

Fine. She loved him. So what?

An owl was hooting outside. There was always an owl hooting all night long. So irritating.

She was his woman, so… why not love him?

A blessing and a curse.

Isabel switched on the phone.

"You always complain about my PJs but tonight I'm naked. Isn't it a pity you aren't here?"

Wasn't it a pity indeed. If he had been there, she wouldn't have wasted the night coming to the conclusion she loved him. Stupid conclusion! Love is for masochists, she had always said. Well, ever since that talk with Grandma Lilia.

"You're now a stupid masochist," she grumbled in Portuguese. "Congratulations."

It was almost six. She had spent half the night going over memories and her alleged love.

She sighed, then she groaned and turned to the side, rubbing her face on the pillows.

Fine! She might love him, but she was not going to live in a stupid cabin straight out of cavemen times for his sake. There were limits!

If there was electricity, she'd get up and do something useful. Like clean or… something. The cabin needed a thorough cleaning, but she had no idea how to do it or with what. All she had was water and biodegradable detergent, since Victor didn't like the smell of the regular one which apparently sticks to the areas where you dispose of the grey water. She had no idea if she could wash the old wooden structure like she would do to ceramics or regular walls, or if it would absorb the humidity and become a stuffy, mouldy hellhole.

She didn't care about cleaning it, anyway. It was too cold to air the whole place and she wasn't in the mood to make an effort. It was effort enough to heat up water every morning so she could have a sponge bath. Wait, a cloth bath. Victor didn't have sponges in the cabin. Only a couple of cloths and a few towels. And let's not talk about the hair. Long hair, cold weather and no hairdryer was a terrible combination. If she wasn't as attached to it as she was, she would have shaved it off.

Isabel sat up and wrapped herself in the blankets. Enough with the sulking. She put her hands together and breathed out the accumulated frustration.

"Virgin Mary, let me be a stupid, conceited asshole who _thinks_ she loves a jerk when she doesn't really. Thank you."

Then she closed her eyes – it was too dark to see anyway – and started playing Bach's prelude on an invisible piano keyboard. Soon, though, her fingers lay still and she straightened up. Tonight she felt more like singing fado. Isabel closed her eyes again. One only needs to feel, not see, when singing fado. In her head, she played a sorrowful melody. She could remember so well the feel of her old guitar, the one she'd been given when she was barely ten. She could almost feel it vibrating against her body.

"Don't think of liking me if I don't ask you to."

Victor had heard that same song months ago. One of Grandma Lilia's favourites.

"If I like you or not, that's my own business,

even if you think

that you'll convince me,

I'll tell you nothing."

In Isabel's head, though, the song was now sung by Victor. It suited him, each and every word of the lyrics. It suited him too well.

"Of whom I like, not even to the walls will I confess; and I'll even bet that I like no one…"

* * *

Title: Nem às paredes confesso (not even to the walls will I confess)

Composed by Artur Ribeiro and Ferrer Trindade

Sung by Amália Rodrigues

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	6. Alberta: Hunting

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **6\. Alberta: Hunting**

Creed had been crouching next to a tree for nearly two hours when the woman finally came out. He always did that, both when he left and when he returned. He parked the jeep further off and walked to the cabin so he could check what the woman was doing.

In the first weeks, he had had to go up to the cabin because she didn't come out at all, but now that April had come in and the days had been rather warm, the woman had gotten in the habit of coming out and getting a bit of sun. Not that she had stopped carrying the blasted blanket around, over her shoulders.

Today, he watched her as she headed to the outhouse and, thanks to the wind blowing in the right direction, he could clearly hear her grumble as she came out. She wasn't usually that loud.

He guessed she wouldn't take much longer before she asked him to relocate her. She had put up with it for an amazingly long time, since she obviously hated the dry cabin. In fact, he had expected her to start complaining after a week or so, but it was over four weeks and still nothing.

She went back in and Creed stretched. Time to show up. But then the door screeched again and he waited. She had gotten her folded blanket, which she used as a cushion, and sat down on the deck. No beer, though. He crouched again.

Isabel rested both elbows on her knees and sank her chin onto her hands. She let out a loud sigh.

Creed waited half an hour. She sat there quietly. Sometimes the blanket would slide down a shoulder and she'd readjust it but, other than that, she just looked at the trees.

Curious. She usually sat down and sang, whether inside or outside. She could sing for hours! Mostly Portuguese songs and a rare English one. Or Latin. As in religious songs. And she'd pretend to play an imaginary keyboard too. Creed wondered what had happened to make her sit there in silence. Nightmares? He hoped not. He'd waited long enough for the woman to get over the whole trauma, and he knew she slept much better these days, or nights.

Well, he'd been out here long enough. He went back into the woods, backtracking all the way to his jeep. Then he got in and drove to the cabin. He would have liked to see her face once she heard the jeep, but it was enough that he could see her smiling, now standing on the steps of the deck.

"Hi!" She called out, her whole face beaming.

As usual every time he returned to the cabin, Creed guessed she must be lonely as hell, stuck in the cabin for days without anyone to talk to. That's why she looked so happy when he came back.

She was grabbing her blanket securely, clearly curbing the impulse to run up to him.

"You have fun," she asked when he got out of the jeep, taking a couple of steps in his direction.

"I wouldn't call it fun," he opened the trunk and got the riffle out. "But I got ya somethin'."

The woman laughed, eyes shining.

"You want a beer or food?" She offered.

He walked up to her, riffle in hand and pointed at the car.

"No need. I brought some more beer an' food. It's in the back. Get it inside, will ya?" She nodded and quickly got into motion. "An' there's a box o' cold pizza in there, too. It's tonight's dinner."

She swinged the door open and grabbed the bags, then banged it close.

"I've told ya not t'do that! That ain't no banger and I spent way too much customisin' it fer you ta fuck it up."

"Sorry," she meowed with a guilty grimace. "We go hunt de… de… animal today?"

"Doe. No, we ain't. It's too late fer that. We'll take off tomorrow mornin' at the break o' dawn. Make sure ya get up an' dressed a bit snappier than yer usuall. Otherwise, I'll be goin' alone."

She always took ages to get ready in the morning. Just getting her away from the blankets was a chore in itself. Not that he worried about it. He enjoyed going out for a walk at dawn. But she was often still dawdling by the time he got back. Sure she tried to be snappy when he was around but she was clearly not interested in moving fast if it meant getting away from blankets or stove.

He took off his muddied boots before getting in the cabin and then sniffed the space. It needed airing. The woman was definitely not the best housekeeper anymore. At least not out here.

"I be fast tomorrow," she said the moment she joined him inside, heading to the cupboard. "You see. Dat is my riffle?"

"Yup. Put everythin' away an' then come out. I'll show ya how it works."

He got a beer and went out, sitting on the deck, the riffle beside him.

Ah, there was nothing like living in the middle of the woods. Such a pity the woman hadn't taken a liking to it. He'd have to take her somewhere else. Probably somewhere less cold, too. He took a long sip and breathed out.

"I'm ready!"

He glanced over at her.

"Not wi'that blanket, ya ain't." He wasn't in a hurry to start shooting anyway. "Sit down."

She did as she was told. The smile was gone now, and she simply looked expectantly at him.

"Nightmares?"

"One." And she smiled brilliantly for a moment.

With that kind of smile it couldn't have been a bad one. Besides, one in three nights was not bad at all. He drank some more and exhaled tiredly. He should check his email and see if there were any jobs he could take. He needed a break from this paperwork hell he'd gotten himself into.

"You know, I think I understand why you like dis so much."

Huh? He glanced at the woman, who had a vague smile as she looked at the trees ahead.

"Is so quiet and pacific. Is like de world entire doesn't exist."

Oh, so she was taking a liking to it.

"Thought ya hated it," he said.

Isabel laughed.

"I can hate and understand why you like at de same time. But I don't hate. I mean, I don't hate de forest and de quiet."

He nodded. "Just the cold."

He kept his perifereal vision on her, so he noticed how she breathed out tiredly.

"I hate de no water, and no electricity, and no bathroom, and… and de cold, obvious." She sighed. "And I hate de fact dat isn't no shops. No markets, no fresh food. And no fish! Fresh fish. Lemon, too! Lemon is essential in everything. And… uh…"

The woman blushed suddenly and looked sideways at him, biting her lower lip. She was such a tease.

"I'm sorry, I don't want complain about dis place. Is safe and you like it. Sorry."

Creed shrugged and finished the beer.

"Ya sure ya wanna go huntin'? 'Cause it'll be cold an' messy. And ya better not complain in any way."

He looked at her. Her eyes were on him, frank and determined.

"I want go wid you." Then she grinned playfully. "I can die off cold, but I don't complain. Promise."

He grinned back.

"Nah. Dyin' o' cold counts as silent complainin'."

The woman laughed and promised she wouldn't die of cold then.

Creed looked back at the trees.

"De next house you put me in…" Ah, she was finally asking for a new place. "Has water and electricity, right?"

He grinned, satisfied she had finally brought it up, even if he was pleased she'd held back for that long.

"Yeah, it'll have the whole works."

He'd probably take her to British Columbia. The southern area weather is relatively mild.

"Thank you."

And if she wanted fresh fish, then the Vancouver area was probably a good option.

"But I still want learn to hunt." Creed frowned at her. For real? "If you want teach me."

"Sure," he told her. "It can't be worse than teachin' ya ta fight."

The woman rolled her eyes and grinned.

"And I want learn to prepare de animals too. You know, take de skin out and de interiors and all dat."

He nodded again. It was good she was interested in that. For as long as she didn't turn out to be a clumsy ass… but she wouldn't. At least when it came to quartering. Not the way she killed chickens and rabbits, which he had witnessed a couple of times back in Wausau. As for shooting, she had had good aim when the targets weren't moving. He wondered how much she'd worsened over the months without any practice.

* * *

The sun shone through the shivering needles and Isabel couldn't help the wave of happiness. Another buzzing insect landed on her brow and she shooed it away with the knife in her hand.

"Don't put that knife through yer brain 'fore the work's done."

Isabel laughed. "I make intention of wait until after lunch!"

She was delighted that Victor chuckled at her comebacks every time he provoked her. She sliced through the doe's meat but then paused to look at the man.

It thrilled her to watch him. It was such a pity he didn't like being observed! She had to steal glances anytime she could.

She sliced some more, the blood dripping onto the muddy earth. Of course, she was extra proud because she had been able to impress him. She had remembered everything… ok, enough of what he had taught her, months ago, in Minnesota. The tracking part anyway. She had kept an eye on every animal footprint they had come across in muddy stretches and had made sure to show off whenever she was confident she'd get it right, pretending to not notice the ones she considered difficult. Naturally she'd gotten most of them right, and Victor hadn't even censored her few mistakes. And then, the cherry on the top of the icing: she'd hit the doe. Sure, the bullet had mostly grazed the animal, but it had drawn blood. Victor had not really expected it, which had only added to her sense of victory, and though he had had to walk quite a lot in order to track the wounded animal and kill it, he had praised her!

Of course she had been humble and apologised for not having shot the doe dead but… Victory!

Isabel got the two large slices she'd cut and took them to the fire she had started, all by her own!, so she could prepare their lunch. She took the chance to ogle the man again. He was hanging the quartered animal so it would cool before they bagged the pieces and went back to the cabin. He had taken off his shirt so it wouldn't get all bloodied and each movement made those muscles…

"Will ya quit yer starin'?"

Jeez, the man had eyes on his back! She chuckled nonetheless and decided to tease him.

"You want well or bad done?"

Keeping her head towards the fire, Isabel made sure she could still enjoy his movements through her periphereal vision, so she saw him as he twisted his torso towards her.

"What are ya talkin' 'bout?"

"De meat! How you want it cooked?"

He turned his back to her and resumed work.

"Ya knows exactly how I wants it, woman. Quit askin' dumb questions!"

Rare. That's how he always ate all of his meat. As rare as possible. Which meant giving the outer sides of the meat a red-brownish colour and allow the inside to remain raw.

Pity he hadn't bitten the bait. Isabel sat down and sighed.

Despite everything, the best part had been when Victor was tracking the wounded doe. Isabel had followed just a few steps behind him, both in silence. He had occasionally explained something – notice the blood here, see the sign of limping on the track there – but they had mostly moved silently through the woods.

Together.

She could have gone on till dark, till the next dawn, till forever.

She could still feel his strong hand pressing her shoulder. The whispered 'stay' as he let go and carried on by himself. The wind blowing softly through the pine trees as she waited all alone. Thinking and savouring. The coolness of the morning sinking in over the warmth of the long hike. His whistle and yell for her to catch up.

It was official: she loved him. Victor Sabretooth Creed. Professional hitman, dangerous killer, self-professed murderer. Of all the people she could have loved!

It had been that feeling of being at peace as she walked one step behind him that had settled it.

Isabel sighed and glanced at him. He had finished hanging the parts of the quartered animal and was now working on its guts. He looked so normal. And yet the image twisted her insides in painful pleasure. It wasn't even sexual, though that body of his was irresistible. It was a throbbing on the pit of her stomach that made her feel alive while wishing to be even nearer him.

"De meat is ready," she called out, eager to lure him closer.

To be honest, the meat might be ready for him, but not quite for her. For a moment, Isabel censored herself for the impulsive action but then she let it go. Why shouldn't she try extra rare meat? She might discover she liked it!

Victor didn't hurry, though. He finished what he was doing then walked away towards a nearby brook to wash his hands. When he finally sat down and started eating, Isabel was determined to enjoy her blood-dripping meat.

"Ya ain't gonna cook yers a bit more?"

Isabel looked at her aluminium plate and felt unsure for a split second, then shrugged.

"I never tried eat like dis before, so I'm going to try today. Why? You think is not a good idea?"

Victor shrugged and bit a chunk off his meat.

"The doe didn't have no worms, so it's pretty safe, but ya'll find it's a bit tougher ta chew. Ya ain't got no fangs, ya know."

Ah! She hadn't thought of it. Too late for second thoughts, though, so she shrugged, balanced the plate on her knees and got her fork and knife. At her side, Victor chuckled. She knew he was laughing at her but it felt nice. He wasn't actually mocking her, after all; he was just amused by what he thought was a silly experience on her part. She would simple have to show him she could handle it.

The moment she put the piece of meat in her mouth, she understood the man's amusement. He must be betting with his buttons how long she'd chew before giving up and getting rid of the piece in her mouth. Not sure if she'd be able to eventually swallow it down, but certainly determined to do it, Isabel did her best to act normal. She chewed, chewed and chewed. Victor didn't say anything, but his piece was almost half-way done and she was still on her first bite.

Finally, Isabel decided she'd simply have to swallow the piece because it wasn't going to get any better than it already was. It wasn't easy, but it went down. Again, Victor didn't comment.

Wiser now, she cut a smaller piece off her meat.

"Thinner."

Isabel looked at him.

"It'll be easier ta chew if it's thin. Here…"

He got the piece she'd cut and ate it, then cut a very thin slice. Isabel held her breath as the plate pressed onto her legs, while Victor used his own fork and knife on her meat.

"Try it now."

"Thanks," her voice came out a whisper and she cleared her throat.

Right now, she didn't feel much hungry, not the way her stomach was contracting over his care. Because there was a level of care in the way he'd helped her. It made no difference whether he liked her or whether… nothing. Quit sugar-coating the man! His feelings for her would never go beyond possession and sexy enjoyment, if one might call it that. He was just being nice because he was in a good mood.

Isabel stuffed the slice and felt more capable of eating, now she had put his actions under a proper perspective.

"You may love him," she told herself in her thoughts, "but he barely likes you. Better to never forget that."

"Ya can feel the taste o' the meat better, too. Right?"

Isabel stopped chewing and looked at him. He liked her. He might never love her or even like her _a lot_ , but he liked her. Liked her company, at least. Why else would he…

"Somethin' wrong?"

Isabel shook her head abruptly.

"Is true, tastes better." Ah, admit it already! As if he didn't know. "Dat first piece almost didn't go down."

Victor laughed and finished his meat. Was he going to go back to the doe carcass, Isabel wondered a bit dismally.

"You want more? I can…" She stopped when he shook his head.

"I ain't hungry," he flashed a naughty grin. "Been snackin' while quarterin'."

He got a hold of her plate.

"I'll slice ya the rest o' the meat."

Isabel blinked, holding her breath as he put the plate in front of him and started cutting very thin slices.

"Ya'll never finish eatin' if ya keep cuttin' 'em pieces as thick as ya do and I'd rather get back t'the cabin 'fore sunset."

See? He didn't really like her. His little gestures were more for himself than anything.

"Thanks," she said, aware of how small her voice had come out.

Though he didn't have to. If he was making small, nice gestures it was because he felt she deserved it. Because he felt like being nice to her and no one else. She would simply have to keep in mind that was all she would ever get from him. She'd have to be satisfied and thankful for…

"Here," he held out a freshly cut slice and Isabel got it with her fingers without thinking, a smile spreading itself on her face.

"So ya really like it?"

"Hun?"

"The meat," he clarified. "It's basically raw. D'ya really like it or are ya just pretendin' ta get on my good side?"

"I'm not pretending!"

But Isabel still blushed, violently, because even if she wasn't pretending to like or dislike anything, she had still hoped he'd like her a bit more if she liked her meat as rare as his. Even if he didn't really like her. Especially because… Oh, stop it! She used the excuse of chewing to get some time to organise her head and cool down her cheeks. He could smell lies, she remembered, and she'd been too distracted with the man to actually appreciate the meat and how much she liked it or not. She tried to focus on the thin strip she was chewing.

"I don't _love_ , but I like. I mean, if is cut thin like you cutted. Yes, I like."

Victor's eyes went over her hungrily and she looked away, reached for another slice from her plate, which he was still holding. Guess she had been right: sharing his taste for hunting and raw meat did increase his… let's call it interest in her. In fact, Isabel got the impression that, should they be in the cabin, she'd be swapping lunch for sex, and she wouldn't have minded it one bit. Out here, though… Her own heartbeat went up at the thought of someone walking by and coming across them.

"Hell," he grumbled to himself. "The meat's gotta cool down anyways."

Hun? Did that mean what she thought it meant? The thrill made swallowing the meat extra fast while the man got up and grabbed his jacket, spread it behind her.

"What if people appear?"

Crouching next to her, he laughed.

"Ya're serious? We're in the middle o'nowehere, Nesi! There's absolutely no one around fer at least five miles." He laughed again. Such a wonderful laughter he had. "And here I was thinkin' ya was worried over the wet ground. Get rid o' those jeans fore I cut 'em off ya, ya teasin' minx."

Isabel didn't need a threat to comply with that type of command.

Over the month she'd been living with Victor, sex had never been like their first night, fast and rough. It was slow, even gentle, a bit repressed. She knew why: he didn't want her to be overwhelmed by bad memories and tell him to stop. He was always patiently giving her time and space, irritatingly judging her incappable of a fast recovery.

Of course she bit her tongue. He was going out of his way to worry about her, which she was fully aware wasn't normal for him, so she kept quiet and told herself to be thankful he was thinking about her needs. Wouldn't it have been nice if he had done the exact same thing on that first night? So, zip it and enjoy it. She had given him some hints that he could be less careful, biting him and scratching his back and arms. A bit too roughly sometimes, but it was so easy to let go in his embrace. Anyway, he didn't seem to get the hints. As thick headed as any other guy.

Out here, though, Isabel was excited to feel the man wasn't holding back as usual. She abandoned herself to him and didn't even notice the jacket hadn't stay put till after they were done.

"Next time," she told him while pulling the jacket over to get her bottom off the freezing earth, "we bring a big blanket."

That got her a wide, victorious grin.

"I been dyin' t' fuck ya out here fer weeks. If ya wasn't always whinin' 'bout the cold…"

The nerve! She pushed him off her without a second thought, though her movement was obviously unsuccessful.

"I don't whine!"

She had never whined in her whole life! What a stupid jerk! It didn't matter that she knew what he meant: he was talking about the way she showed with every movement she was freezing to the marrow. Well, when the stove wasn't working at any rate. Still, he had no right to call it whining!

"Not when ya thinks I'm around, ya don't."

Wait, what?

Victor chuckled at her confusion and grabbed her naked ass, pulled her to him.

"When ya think I'm gone, I sometimes hang around. I can hear ya whinin' t'yerself all day long."

Isabel breathed in to control her anger. He was spying on her? He was… She closed her hands into fists to stop herself from pushing him away, seriously this time, and get up. She knew that pushing him away, seriously or teasingly, meant come and get me in that head of his. That much she'd already discovered.

"I _don't_ whine."

The man chuckled, those golden eyes clearly enjoying her anger.

"Fine, ya don't whine. But ya groan, and ya grunt, and ya grumble. Every time ya goes out t'the outhouse or t'empty the grey water bucket. All ya gotta do is think I'm gone, and ya start doin' it."

Isabel was boiling. The stupid, stupid jerk!

"So you spy me."

He laughed. As if it was a joke!

"No, I observe ya. I wanna know what ya're like when ya ain't actin' all nice an' sweet fer me."

Oh. The anger became a piece of ice. He thought that she pretended to like him. Even if he trusted her enough not to suspiciously judge her every movement, he still didn't trust her enough to think her words and gestures were natural. He believed it was all an act to sooth him and keep him happy. How could she change that?

"But I'll tell ya a secret."

He nibbled her neck then her ear lobe before whispering: "I appreciate yer effort not t'complain."

Isabel snuggled against his neck, thinking furiously over a way to make him believe she wasn't pretending.

"Is not pretending, Victor. I never say I'm happy wid something when I'm not, but I also don't say I hate something that can't be changed. Like live here for a while! I never, _never_ complain because of things dat can't be changed, that have to be accepted de way dey are."

"But ya do it when ya're alone."

"I _never_ complain!"

And she pulled back so she could glare that simple fact into his understanding. The man was amused, though.

"Ya're grumblin' sure sounds a lot like complainin'."

"Well, is not!" She snapped. "Complain means you're talking to oder people. If you are grumbling alone, you are not complaining."

Victor chuckled and grabbed a strand of her hair, rolled it around his finger. He grinned devilishly.

"But ya wasn't grumblin' alone. I was there."

He wanted to anger her. He had to. Isabel had no idea why, but it had to be it. Better to just go off in a different direction.

"Listen, I want you be happy, not annoy you. Is why I'm always careful when you are in de cabin. I try not to do things dat can annoy you, like sing all de time."

It wasn't the same as pretending to be a different person for his sake.

"How d'ya know somethin' will annoy me? Ya should ask first. I could happen ta like somethin' that you think annoys me."

Isabel blinked. She hadn't thought about it. Wait, why was he telling her this? Did it mean he liked it when she sang? Because she had just mentioned singing.

"I annoy you when I sing?"

"Hell, yeah!"

Isabel's heart stopped beating at his expression of complete disgust, but then the man burst laughing and she didn't know what to think for a moment.

"Ha! Ya should'ave seen yer face!"

It sank in with sickening fury.

"You're _so_ …!"

Better not finish, but she still slapped his arm and tried to get up, only he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back down, forcing her to lie down as he leaned over her.

"Quit bein' so hot headed, Nesi!" And he grinned triumphantly. "Ya're so easy t'pick on."

"Is not funny!"

"Sure it is!"

What could she say at that? Nothing! But she clenched her teeth angrily and glared at him. He laughed again. Asshole!

"Ya ain't got no sense o' humor. Seriously, now, I don't mind ya singin' 'round me fer as long as I'm in the mood t'put up with it and I like what ya're singin'."

Well, if that was all there was to it…

"Tell me what you like and I sing it."

Victor got off her and laid on his side besides her.

"I got a better idea. Guess what I like."

Oh, for the love of God!

"Ok. But first let me dress de jeans. I'm getting cold."

That wiped the grin off his face.

"Ya're _always_ gettin' cold."

Now who was complaining? She didn't say it, obviously, but she grinned mockingly at him.

"Den bring me to hunt in summer. When is _hot_."

He grunted. "Ya can bet yer ass ya'll be spendin' summer huntin' out here wi'me."

The whole summer stuck in that horrible cabin? Oh, better not say anything.

"Well, ain't ya gonna guess what I like?"

Isabel glanced at him as she finished buttoning the jeans and smirked.

"I thought you wanted dat I ask what annoys you and not guess."

"Smart ass. What I want is fer you ta quit wearin' jeans an' stick t' skirts." What? "And no panties!"

Oh! Isabel blushed as she imagined herself walking down the street wearing a long dress and absolutely nothing underneath it. To hell with the long dress! A knee-length skirt. She imagined him walking besides her and both burning to get off the street. Imagined him telling her off for being a teasing minx. She didn't have to imagine the thrill of the whole thing.

"You know, I like dat idea. I _really_ like dat idea!"

Victor looked surprised and she laughed.

"I need to buy skirts!"

And the song came to her at that exact moment, the amusement over Victor's sudden turn-coating after that racy demand making her playful. She couldn't wait to do it! Holding a make-believe microphone, Isabel fell into a theatrical pose, swinging her hips to the chirpy melody that was now playing in her head, smiling happily, and went straight for the chorus:

"It's my party, and I cry if I want to, cry if I want to," he was sitting up, an eye cocked up, and she pointed cheekily at him. "You would cry too if it happened to you!"

"I don't like that one."

He was lying! His face did not betray the least annoyance; if anything, it betrayed hidden amusement. Whatever! Next. Let's see… She didn't know that many English songs in their entirety. It was mostly the chorus and sometimes the first lines. Portuguese songs popped up as good ideas, but she wanted something in English. She wouldn't risk giving him the chance to shoot down Portuguese songs when he was in the mood to aggravate her. Ah!

She started rocking to and fro as she played the melody in her mind all the way to the chorus.

"Let's make a night to remember, from Janary to December,

Let's make love, to excite us,

A memory, to good night us"

Isabel smiled at him. He was making an effort not to grin. Hopefully, he was trying to pretend he didn't like this song either and not doing his best to keep a straight face at the nonsense verses. Because she really didn't know the lyrics of this song all that well and had no idea if she was making sense.

"Let's make honey baby, soft an tender

Let's make sugar darling, sweet surrender

Let's make a night to remember oh life long"

"Loved that 'good night us' part," he chuckled.

Yeah, he'd been making fun of the distorted lyrics. Dumb ass. Isabel breathed in and got ready to deepen her voice.

"Start spreading de news…"

The man perked at the start, and Isabel held back a smirk of triumph.

"I'm leaving today, I want to be a part of it, New York, New York!"

There was a mild surprised attention on his face that made Isabel groan at the fact she barely knew any of the lyrics. She skipped ahead and went straight for the final.

"If I can make it dere, I'll make it anywhere, it's up to you, New York, New York!"

She let her voice soar high and long, the melody of the brass accompanying in her mind. When she stopped, she looked down at Victor from the height of her glory.

"Ya don't know the lyrics, do ya?"

Obviously!

"I learn de rest if you want. You like Sinatra?"

He hesitated a moment then nodded. "Joe Cocker, too."

Of course! How stupid of her. He had told her that months ago.

"Ok. Den I start by learn Sinatra musics and Cocker."

Victor got up and got his jeans.

"Ya think ya can learn 'em an' get the lyrics straight? It'll ruin the effect otherwise."

Isabel made a grimace.

"I can if you help. I memorise de music by ear, you see, so is easy to not understand de words."

He gave her a wary glance.

"Is no work for you, really! You just say de words normally. You don't have to sing nor nothing. You just say de words, like you are reading or speaking normally, and I repeat after you, to make certain I am saying de right words. Is all."

"We should get goin'," he wasn't giving her a flat no so there was still hope. "Get the meat bags, will ya?"

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	7. Vancouver: Fizzy Feelings

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **7\. Vancouver: Fizzy Feelings**

Creed had been very thoughtful when he had decided to take Isabel to Vancouver. It was probably the warmest place in the whole country and he was pleased when, driving through British Columbia, the woman sighed in relief at the sight of snow-free landscapes. Still, true to her no-complaint attitude, she made no comments about it. One could say her smile was comment enough, but Creed had wanted her to comment. He had wanted her to thank him profusely for his gesture. He could have taken her to any other place, after all.

"Nice weather, huh?" he had said when he'd stopped for gas, a few miles from the city.

In hindsight, he should have been more specific.

"Beautiful!" She had glowed and shivered. "So green! So many flowers! Is like… like Spring and Winter got togeder."

"Spring and Winter?"

She had nodded, delighted.

"Is cold like Winter but are many flowers like late Spring."

If she thought 50ºF was winter cold…

She laughed, then. Obviously, she'd seen his expression.

"I know what you think. Me and de cold! I'm crazy, right?"

Who was he to deny the truth.

"Anyway, that's why I brought ya here. Think ya'll be able ta stay outside fer longer than ten minutes?"

Isabel's smile faded and she looked at him solemnly. What had she thought, that he happened to like Vancouver's weather? Hadn't she realised he'd have preferred to remain in the cabin… well, maybe he could have bought a bigger one, nearer to a town and with actual running water and electricity. But hadn't she realised he'd have preferred to remain in a wooded area?

"You chose dis place because of me?" And she'd given him a fleeting smile, more surprised than happy. "I am… I have no words! I… Thank you. Thank you so much. I…"

"Shut up an' get in," he had growled. "We still got a long way ta go."

So much for profuse thanks. She had better love the apartment he'd rented. Especially with the price tag it came with.

They had travelled pretty much in silence across the Canadian states, with only some occasional questions on her part about one place or the other they were going through. Well, except for the Canadian Rockies. That leg of the journey had been annoyingly eventful, what with Isabel getting car sick all of a sudden. Even he had been surprised, since he'd driven very long days with her before and she'd never gotten car sick, and she'd groaned at her body's stupid reaction.

"Ya never been on a mountain road before, have ya?"

Because, on their way up from Mexico, Creed had ended up avoiding both California and Salt Lake City, which meant they'd crossed the American Rockies down at Santa Fe and that really wasn't a bad road.

"These roads can get pretty windin' at times an' what wi' the snow an' ice, they ain't exactly smooth either."

Isabel had laughed, though.

"I never was in a mountain road," she agreed, getting back in the car. "But I was in a lot of mount roads. Dis road? Is like… de perfect road."

Well, duh.

"It's a highway, it ain't the same as a backcountry lil' road."

"Nah!" She shook her head, laughing. "I have been in highways dat have more holes and more curves dan dis and was not a mountain. And you don't want to see Portuguese national roads in areas wid mounts and mountains. Even people dat aren't afraid of tall places get deir hearts in deir hands. Unless you are used to dem, of course. And I been in roads like dat so, _so_ many times. I _don't_ get car seeck. Dis was probably dat sandwich I ate when we stopped. Didn't fall right."

Maybe. She had commented something about the sauce. She was so picky about them! It was that obsession of hers that she was the only one who cooked really well and made the best sauces. Not that she wasn't a good cook, but she could do with some humility when eating at roadside joints.

"We're pretty high, too," he reasoned. "Over 4,500 feet. That's about over 1,500 meters, by the way. Altitude can mess ya up when ya ain't used ta it. Make ya dizzy an' stuff."

She had burped ominously in response and Creed had hurried to pull over.

"Yeah," she'd made an effort to sound less on the verge of barfing. Again. "Altitude and bad food. Really bad combination."

It had been a whole day of it. Well, maybe not the whole day, but whenever she put food in her stomach, the next two hours were hellish so she ended up doing a fast.

"Gastroentreet," she had ended up deciding.

"Ya call 'em stomach bugs around here," he'd grunted as he got back on the road.

"Isso," she'd dismissed. "I just need to not eat nothing solid for five hours but drink a lot of black tea. Den I eat some toasted bread and grilled meat wid no fat, oh, and rice. White rice. I'll be good in 24 hours."

"Ya ain't got no black tea," he'd told her. "And no toasted bread, no white rice."

She'd shrugged. "Den I drink just water. De important thing is a lot of liquids and no fat."

"That's yer recipe fer stomach bugs?"

"Yes, you have to use a treatment of shock if you want to get good fast." She'd rested back on the seat and sighed. "What's your recipe?"

"Healin' factor."

She'd laughed.

"Funny! Next time we drive dis long, I prepare food. Tons of food. Den I know I won't catch nothing."

He should have taken less than five hours crossing the Rockies. He took over seven. That had been the most talkative part of the journey, since the woman tried to make light of the constant stops by chatting for a few minutes. The second day of the journey, feeling much better and on a strict no-sauce, no-fat diet, she had been quiet as a mouse.

Except when there were songs she knew on the radio. She would sing them and even dance on her seat, which had been funny. She looked like such a clown. A provocative one. The woman was a born tease, after all.

"I have to create my proper CDs," she'd said. "Half de time, de radio has no good music. You have to tell me de musics you like so I make sure we have days of music non-stop and we two like _all_ of it."

"Why bother with CDs when I got ya ta sing whatever I wants?"

"Ah! Den I need a guitar! And! _And_! I learn dat music of Joe Cocker, you can keep your hat on. Hun? What you think?"

"I don't think that's the best choice fer a car drive," he'd winked at her and she'd laughed, throwing her head back.

Although, to be fair, she did not act like a clown when there were many cars around, and the dialogues she picked up were nice and short. It made the drive more pleasant and did not burden it with drawn out babbling.

But, as they went over River Fraser, the hills of Burnaby looming in the horizon, Isabel breathed out ominously. Not even when she was barfing every five minutes had she adjusted herself on the seat like that, dead serious.

"Remember when you said to me dat I didn't have fizzy feelings for you?"

Brilliant! She wanted to have a 'talk'. Just what he needed! Couldn't she have waited till they arrived so he could ditch her? And she didn't even speak proper English! He'd have to correct her throughout the grill.

" _Fuzzy_ feelings."

"Isso," she said, and he was keenly aware that, although she was pretending to study the landscape ahead, she was actually keeping a close eye on him. Waiting for a reaction, which meant she knew she was pestering him.

"I thought a lot, you know. Since I left Wausau and den… in Mexico and in de cabin. And I wanted tell you dat I arrived to de conclusion dat I love you."

Huh? Not again!

"I know!" She blurted when he started shaking his head, seething inside at the topic. "Before you say anything, I want dat you know dat I know. Is a bad idea and makes no sense. You are a killer, a monster. How can I love a man like dat, right? I _know_. Believe me, I preferred much more dat I don't love you. But… you can't choose who you love, right?"

Why was she talking about this? Keep to yourself, dumbass!

"And why exactly are ya tellin' me this?"

"Because I promised you honesty." He had meant serious stuff, not _this_. Asshole. "What you think I should do? Hide how I feel? I know you don't like dis fizzy feel…"

" _Fuzzy_!" He growled abruptly. "Fizzy is a type o' drink, get it? Carbonated drinks, with bubbles. Like sparkling water an' stuff."

"O-kay," she said with theatrical slowness. "I get it. Sorry I used de wrong word. But since you are explaining words, what is fuzzy? Means nothing to me."

Was that why she insisted in using the wrong words for stuff? Because the correct ones meant nothing to her?

"Then how's about I gets ya a damn dictionary and ya actually use it fer once?"

The woman shrugged and looked out the window to her right.

"It means it's got fuzz." She glanced over at him with a 'not-following-you' expression. "Ya know, it's fluffy. It's… It means it makes ya feel nice an' warm inside."

"Ok, I get it." It was about time. "So, just to finish our conversation, what I feel for you is not fuzzy, ok?"

Good. Though, for as long as she didn't get all lovey-dovey on him, he really couldn't care...

"And is not fizzy too."

Was the woman for real?

"I've just explained fizzy feelings don't exist!"

"Pelo amor de deus!" She blurted with matching intensity. "I saw many my friends in love. Dey are bubbly, ok? Dey are not nice and warm inside; dey are bubbly and happy and blind and very, very stupid. And den de big bubble explodes and ends de happiness. So, in conclusion: my love for you isn't a fizzy and bubbly love, and is not nice and warm and fuzzy. Is a… a… I'm going to call it 'calm love'."

He was trapped in the twilight zone. He should just shut up and let the conversation die. Then he could act like it had never happened. What did the woman have for brains?

"Calm love? Are you outta yer mind?"

"Well, I know I invented de expression. I'm sorry; I know you like dat I only use real words and things. I'm just trying to explain how I feel. Is not nice and warm inside and is not big fire of artifice. Is just... I don't know. I love you. Dat's all."

"Fire of artifice? What is that? Ya ain't makin' no sense!"

The woman buried her face in her hands and let out a long grunt.

"I _know_!" She said when she looked up again. "I'm sorry I transformed dis conversation in a mess. Is not easy of explain! I just…"

"Love me. I know. Ya've said it already." Too many times.

"Look, I just wanted dat you know dat I love you. I would do everything for you. Well, almost everything but… I wanted dat you know dat I love you but I'm not going to act fuzzy and fizzy and, you know, I'm not going to act all stupid and in love. Dat is what fizzy feelings is, já agora, act stupid and in love. I'm just going to be my normal me and… and dat's it."

Which already accounted for plenty of stupidity.

"Ok."

"You can even forget dat I love you," she added in a lower voice. "Because, obviously, is not important to you."

"Damn right it ain't."

There was silence, but Creed was sure it was not going to last. It was that 'I'm biting my tongue to avoid saying something too big to bite down' kind of silence.

"I love you _so_ much," she said through clenched teeth, "dat I would have continued to live in a stupid, frozen cabin wid you if you had asked me."

… She would have _what_?!

"I would have say to you dat I have to have water and electricity. And a real toilet. And a real shower. But I would have lived in a stupid cabin. Only wid more heating systems. Just because I love you."

Creed breathed in, his hands curling around the driving wheel. _Now_ she told him? After _all_ the trouble he'd…

"But I love you more because you saw dat I hated de cold and you bringed me here. And I am stupid because when you do nice things to me… when you see dat is something wrong and you try to fix… when you do dat, I love you even more and I want do even more things to make you happy and I feel stupid because you don't want to know what I like or don't like. You understand? I just want do things dat make you happy. Even when dey don't make _me_ happy because I'm stupid and I love you."

Creed blinked. Was this speech rehearsed? Because he got the impression she was trying to tell him that being nice to her made her want to do whatever he wanted whether she liked it or not.

"Why the hell didn't ya say somethin' earlier?"

"About de cabin?" She chuckled, mockingly. "I'm stupid because I love you, Victor, not because I am naturally stupid. I mean, I can do something I hate because you ask me and I want make you happy, but I am not going to say 'hey, I hate dis but you like so you can ask me to do it and I say yes!'."

He glanced at her.

"So if I had just told ya I was gonna keep ya safe in the middle o' the woods…"

"I would have said 'give me water, electricity and a normal house wid a normal bathroom and… yes, I make de sacrifice'."

Creed shook his head.

"But ya're tellin' me this now," he growled. "Which means ya're stupid 'cause I can use it against ya from now on."

She breathed out.

"I promised you honesty," she said in a quiet tone, but then it changed abruptly. "But also because I know you are not stupid. You know dat if you make one or two things dat make me live happy, I will do many more things to make you happy every minute off de day. I mean… just compare me in Wausau and in de cabin. Sure, no sex in Wausau, but de food, de house, de ready to obey? And in de cabin, lots of sex but I want stay warm in bed and near de fire all day and I never really want to make what you want dat I make. What you prefer, dat I live in sacrifice and have no energy to make you happy?"

She was spelling it out for him: give me what I want, and I'll do anything for you. Force me into stuff I don't like, and I'll be… well, not nagging, but dull like all hell. Sex aside. She liked that too much to get back on him at her own expense.

"So… how long ago did ya decide ta gimme this lil' lecture?"

From the way she narrowed her eyes, she hadn't understood every word, but she'd guessed the idea. She breathed out and shrugged.

"When you said you got a house for me to live in Vancouver, I thought… 'he knows dat if he makes me happy, I work more hard to make him happy'? I mean… had _you_ thought about it like dis?"

No, he hadn't, if he was being honest. Though it was a no-brainer. Probably the only reason he hadn't consciously thought about it.

"I'm sorry if… I don't know. Next time I just say: look, de more you make me happy, de more I love you and want to make _you_ happy. So, can I live in a place where I don't freeze? Just tell me what you want in change."

"Exchange," he corrected automatically. "And, yeah, direct an' t' the point sounds like the best option here."

"Okay. I don't forget dat."

Creed chewed over that last idea for a few silent minutes. Whatever he wanted, huh?

"So, Nesi…" She looked sharply at him, obviously surprised, since he usually saved her nickname for teasing games or lazy mornings, not mild arguments. She was starting to warm up to him calling her that, no matter how much she claimed she wasn't. "I just got ya a house in a place where ya won't freeze. What are ya willin' t' do in exchange?"

She chuckled.

"Nothing stupid. Why? What you have in mind?"

Nothing just yet. He wondered what she would be willing to do to prove her love for him. There might be something useful in these 'fizzy feelings' of hers after all.

"I'll tell ya when we get t'the house."

"Tease," she said softly, but then she shook her head. "Ah! I knew! I _knew_ you were going to want dat sooner or later."

He frowned at her. "Whatchya babblin' 'bout?"

"De exchange!" She explained, a crooked half grin on her face and a glint in the eye. "You want anal sex. I was asking me when you were going to ask for it."

Well remembered!

"Ya know, this honesty ya promised me, how's about ya starts runnin' with it a bit earlier on, huh? 'Cause this delayed honesty thing ya got goin' right now isn't makin' me happy."

She laughed carelessly.

"Is a deal."

He doubted it.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	8. Vancouver: Pushing Buttons

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **8\. Vancouver: Pushing Buttons**

The woman hadn't made a fuss over the penthouse, even though it was big and had a great view, but she had over the bathtub. They had barely gotten in, and she was already filling it to the brim, grinning like a Cheshire cat, saying she was going to be soaking for hours. Twenty minutes later, the tub was draining. Then it was filled up again.

Creed had frowned at it; had even wondered if she was fixing him a bath too, but no. If his ears were working fine, and they were, the woman hadn't left the tub. He'd kept half his attention on his emails after that, the other half keenly on the woman's movements. Another fifteen minutes, give or take, and water was once more draining from the tub. But this time, it only drained for a few moments, definitely not enough to get rid of all the water, and then the tap started running again.

What on earth?

He closed his laptop and entered the bathroom. It was misty and way too hot.

"Hey, Nesi!" Isabel jumped inside the tub, a hand on the still open tap. "Ya got the heatin' on?"

She grinned with a wild joy that was almost funny.

"Yes! Isn't nice? Oh, close de door, close de door quick! Before de cold comes in." He did so with a roll of his eyes. "Thank you. Ah, I can stay in here forever!"

She closed the tap, and slid back into the water, letting her chin dive in and closing her eyes in pure delight.

"Calorzinho," she purred to herself.

Creed chuckled. Warm wasn't exactly the word he'd use. Sweltering was more like it.

"What's wi'the water? Ya keep openin' the tap."

Isabel giggled and cracked an eye open.

"The water was getting cold, so I let out a little and put more hot water."

The stuffy room was really uncomfortable. Creed was about to leave when he had a better idea. He reached for the heater and switched it off. The reaction was immediate.

"No, no, _please_! I still have de cold off de entire month stuck in me. I need _hot_!"

He laughed at the theatrical drama in her voice and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"I'll give ya hot," he grinned at her exaggerated pout.

As expected, the pout melted as fast as he undressed.

"Wait!" She lifted her torso off the water and leaned on the brim, the tip of her tongue playing over her teeth for a moment before she bit her lower lip. "Let me see."

He frowned. "See what?"

"De cabin was too dark and too small to admire your body, and dat body was made to be admired. Turn around."

Creed hesitated, feeling a bit awkward at her unashamed ogling.

"Oh, come on. I want see your back. I want eat dat perfect body wid my eyes. Turn."

He almost complied. Her command hadn't been bossy or authoritarian, not even imposing; it had that soft ease of someone who expects to be obeyed simply because. And he almost fell for it.

"Don't try t'order me around."

He said it in a purposefuly light tone and almost expected her to become haughty at his denial. Instead, she cocked her head to the side and made a half sulk.

"I was not order. I just want admire you."

Then she sighed despondently and shrugged.

"Mean," she mock-grumbled in Portuguese before switching back to English. "You know what I wanted do? Go to de bitch wid you."

"Beach," he corrected, which she ignored with a 'isso'.

"And den I would be de envy of every woman, looking at your body and can't touch. Only me."

She sighed and smiled dreamily. Creed crouched by the tub, so his eyes were closer to her level, and grinned back. He was getting in the mood to aggravate her.

"Only they can if I want 'em to."

The woman's face changed instantly. Her eyes nearly flashed, her lips went from relaxed to stern, and her slack posture became taut even if she didn't move a finger from her previous position. Provocative change. Although intense, her gaze was not quite a glare and he felt like further aggravating her in order to turn into a glare. Now what could he say?

"Remember when I said, a long time ago, dat you don't really know me?"

"Hu-huh."

Though he didn't really remember it. Only a vague memory.

"I don't react very well to humilliation."

Creed frowned.

"What are ya talkin' 'bout?"

The woman breathed deeply in and sat up in the bathtub, drawing his attention to her now visible breasts.

"When I go somewhere wid people, I am wid dem. If dey decide to forget I exist, dat is humilliating and I get offended. If we are talking about me be wid a guy… den if de guy decides to hit a girl and ignore me, dats is very much worse. So, we two go to de bitch and you want to fuck half de womans dere, fine. But _not_ in front of me."

Creed didn't stop the grin that pulled his smile sideways.

"'Course I wouldn't fuck 'em in front of ya. I'd leave ya there an' go to a motel or somethin'."

She paled at that and he almost laughed. It was so easy to push her buttons. And that glare! He really liked the way she glared. She kept her head high while most women lower them somewhat, and she kept her eyes level too, instead of trying that supposedly menacing look either from above or below.

"I went to a discotec wid a friend, one time." Oh, a story to underline how much she hated humilliations. "She wanted to dance and forget her boyfriend because dey had had a bad fight. Fine. We went. Den a guy showed interest and she forgot about me and went to sit wid him."

"And ya killed her."

She breathed in tersely.

"I told her I wasn't going to stay dere alone, waiting for her. She was too busy to listen, so I left her. No car, not enough money for a taxi, and forty minutes away from her house."

"Now that's boring, see? Ya should have smashed her face in. It'd make a much better tale."

"De oder day, she came talk wid me. Started yelling dat I had left her alone widout a warning. Made dis big scandal in de street. Dat she could have been attacked and killed because of me."

"An' that was when ya punched her."

The woman breathed deeply in and then breathed out in controlled exasperation. Her glare could flay a man alive. He loved it!

"I am not a woman of the street, Victor. Fights are for beaches of low class." Bitches, he corrected in his head. She really had those words mixed up. "I am above dat type of sheet. I told her, aloud so people can hear me but not screaming, dat she was too busy trying to get in de pants of dat guy and dat was why she didn't hear me when I said I was leaving."

Oh, so the woman thought herself above more aggressive women, did she? Thoughts of grandeur, perhaps.

"And den she tried to hit me in de face. Wid an open hand, like dis."

"Slap," he offered. "She slapped ya."

"No! No, no. Nobody slaps _me_. I knew what she was going to do when I said dat. When you insult people, you know you have to be ready for deir reaction. No. I stepped away and she didn't touch me. But because I was ready, I hit her wid my bag and, before she could react, I pushed her to de ground and grabbed her hair and forced her face on the floor. I told her, you never talk to me again. Never. You are nothing but a prostitute running after de first man she sees and I do not talk to dat type of woman. From now on, you do not exist. Understand? Den I got up, got my bag from de ground and followed my way. Everyone in de street was watching. She was completely humilliated."

"I'd have loved ta see dat." And he wasn't lying. "But I'd rather see ya winnin' a cat fight."

"No one wins a fight. Is a humilliation for de two womans. De important thing is make sure everyone knows she is a stupid beach. A cold head, dat is what is important, and a sharp tongue."

"So, Miss-I'm-above-everyone-else, what if I humilliate ya? A sharp tongue ain't a match fer sharp claws, ya know."

She did not hesitate half second.

"You only humilliate me one time." Her voice was a mix of harshness and aloofness. "I said I am your woman, and I am your woman for always. _Always_. But if you humilliate me, I am _not_ going to stay and wait for de second time."

Was she saying what he thought she was saying?

"Ya're aware I'll kill ya if ya ever as much as think 'bout leavin'."

She held his gaze with a careless ease that irritated him.

"No. I kill myself first so you don't have de satisfaction."

His hand was on her neck before he could think twice. It encircled it perfectly, especially as he was applying some pressure.

"Say that again," he growled.

He might as well have asked her if she'd rather have apple or orange for a snack. Or maybe not, because her eyes shone and her heartbeat increased. Not the slightest hint of fear or regret, though.

"I never leave you because I don't want leave you, Victor. But I have to do what I have to do. I prefer _die_ dan be humilliated and do nothing."

Creed growled and gripped her neck harder.

"I only ask dat you don't humilliate me," her voice broke as it became harder to breathe. "Don't force me… because I don't want… leave…"

He pushed her backwards and got up, growling. Her neck was red, turning purple already in some points. The moment she stopped coughing, the woman looked up to meet his glare.

"I'm sorry, but I have a bad temper. I'm sorry! I always try to hide so people think I'm very nice but de truth is dat I have a _really_ bad temper. And if a people offends me, den I do what I have to do. Doesn't matter de consequence, doesn't matter de person. I'm sorry. I always said you didn't know me."

Creed was still trying to keep his own temper in check. In fact, a stupid thought reminded him that, next to his temper, hers was nothing more than dumb and suicidal. If she truly had a bad temper, it would have blown in the first week in the cabin.

Isabel sat in the blasted bathtub gazing calmly at him and his blood boiled anew.

"Ya ever threaten ta leave again…"

"Don't you _hear_?" She interrupted, her voice hissing harshly through her clenched teeth.

Creed lunged back at her.

"I want _stay_ wid you. You hear now?"

He grabbed her by both forearms and lifted her off the tub.

"I want _stay_. Always!"

He dropped her on her two feet so he could open the door, one hand securely on her arm.

"Is _your_ choice, raios! I leave only if you force me," she kept on spewing in her angry hiss. " _Your_ choice!"

He tried to drag her onto the bed but she kept up with him so he threw her onto it.

"Raios, homem! You understand or not? You don't get rid of me unless _you_ _force_ _me_ to leave."

"Shut the fuck up! Ya're mine, got it? Ya ain't leavin' me. Ever!"

"Good! I don't want leave!"

"Then stop threatenin' t'do so!"

The woman breathed out fiercely and glared at him with renewed fire.

"Is not a threat! Don't you _hear_? I want stay wid you. I don't want leave. Understand? But I die before I let anyone humilliate me. Even you. Even my moder! _Anyone_! So, please, don't humilliate me because I can't eat my pride and live wid dat. I can't! Understand?"

Like hell she couldn't! She might be a bit wild on some stuff, but he'd tame her. See if she…

"Say I'm yours."

Huh?

"Say I belong to you."

Creed took a step back. She had always bristled at that before. Why was she coat-turning all of a sudden?

"Like your bike and your cabin and your… your jeep! You don't let anyone touch your things and you take care of dem. Dat jeep is always in perfect condition and clean and… and perfect! I want dat you treat me like dat too. Dat you don't let anyone touch or hurt me. And dat _you_ don't hurt me too, like you don't hurt your jeep. Dat is all I want. Be wid you always."

He stood there above her. She was kneeling on the bed and, despite her soothing words of apparent surrender, her gaze was too fierce, her voice too steady, her posture too spirited.

Creed got on the bed and grabbed her neck again.

"You _are_ mine."

"Yes," she breathed, relief softening her stance.

"And I'll do whatever I feels like doin' t' you."

She held her breath for a moment, her body regaining its stiffness of a moment ago, then she attempted a nod that didn't quite happen because his grip was immobilizing her neck.

"You do what you have to do. Like everyone."

She said it flatly. Desillusioned. Cold.

That was all the submission he was going to get from her, he realised. It was not enough, though. He kissed her harshly but she didn't kiss back so he pushed her down onto the bed.

He was going to fuck some sense into that dumb… Fear enveloped the woman and Creed stood still. It reminded him of why he had played around with this particular mouse instead of forcing himself on her: he had wanted her willingly. Just the way she'd been over the last month. Willing, spirited and eager. If he didn't step back right now, he might as well just kill her.

He snarled.

"Ya promise, right here an' right now, ya ain't ever tryin' ta leave."

Because she was stubborn and kept her promises with suicidal determination. She looked up into his eyes in irritation.

"And _dis time_ you are going to believe?"

"Promise!"

The woman breathed out, irritated. It drove him crazy the way she never took physical threats seriously!

"I promise I don't leave you except if _you_ force me."

Damn the woman!

"That ain't what I told ya t'promise!"

"Dat is de only thing I promise. _You_ want dat I stay, I stay. _You_ want dat I leave, I leave. Is in _your_ hands. _Your_ decision. Is dat or nothing. _You choose_!"

Creed snarled and got off the bed. He was that close to giving her a beating! But, again, if he did, he might as well kill her, precisely because she was suicidally stubborn. He growled at the woman, all the way from the bathroom door, and she sighed with exasperation as she sat up on the bed. As if she had any right to be exasperated!

"God and Virgin Maria are my… what is de word? Dey are my judge and guarantee of truth. I promise in front of dem: I don't want leave you. Never. I want stay wid you. For always. You can smell I am saying de truth. If someone tries to make me leave you, I still don't leave you. I die before dat happens. I promise! I am your woman because I want, not because I am forced. I made my choice, and I live wid my choice. _Promise_! You smell I say de truth, right?"

Of course he did! That was not the point! He just wanted her to stop aggravating him, threatening to leave if he did whatever!

"I'm serious: why is all dis? You want humilliate and hurt people? You have de entire world for dat. If you want dat I am your woman, den you are supposed to treat me different from de rest of de world, no?"

What the hell was she going on about now?

"I treat ya however I feel like!"

"You treat _everyone_ however you feel like! Den why you say I'm your woman? If you treat me like all de oder dat you hurt and use and kill, what makes me different in treatment?"

"Ya're different 'cause I want ya alive an' doin' what I tells ya t'do! 'Cause ya're mine. That's why ya're different. It don't mean nuthin' more."

"Ok, den understand dis: I don't live wid humiliation and abuse. So if you want dat I live, don't humiliate and hurt me. Is dat very difficult for you?"

There! She always went back to the same.

"Ya do not tell me what t'do an' not do an' then threaten t'leave! D'ya need a beatin' t'get it?"

"I am _not_ …" She breathed in abruptly and covered her face with her hands. Did that mean she was finally getting it inside her head to behave? "Is dis punishment? You are being stubborn so I see how you hate when I'm stubborn?"

Huh?

"Ok, from de start. I don't want leave you and you don't want dat I leave you. Great, we two agree! You want dat I live and obey you and I want to live wid you and if I have to obey, great, no problem. Everything good. I want dat you don't humiliate me and don't hurt me. Is a special reason dat you want humilliate and hurt me? Because if you have no special reason, den we have no reason to be discussing. You have a reason?"

Creed looked down at her. Of course he didn't really want to hurt her. He had just been teasing her a bit. She was the one who had turned a harmless joke into a stupid quarrel when she'd started threatening to leave!

"I will have if ya ever threatens me again."

"I _didn't_ …" She breathed out and shrugged. "Ok, fine! I don't threaten. Promise!"

Finally!

"Ya need ta get inside that thick head of yers ya belong ta me, woman! Stop aggravatin' me fer no reason!"

Her gaze turned more intense again.

"I belong to you? Like your jeep?"

What kind of stupid question…?

"Yes, like my jeep."

"De jeep dat you want in perfect condition, no scratch, no dent, no nothing?"

Where was she going with this now?

"Yes! That jeep!"

"I think not, because you don't put dents in your jeep and I have a dent!"

She pointed at her bruised neck and Creed shook his head.

"Have ya gone demented?"

"No! If I belong to you, de least you can do is treat me like you treat dat stupid jeep. Wid careful. And instead you come and threaten to humiliate me and… why? Why you threaten to humiliate me?"

There she was again, blowing everything out of proportion! He really shouldn't have gotten her out of the cabin. She had never gone overboard there, if you didn't count the Izzie thing.

"I didn't threaten ya! I was just pushin' yer buttons!" She frowned as if she hadn't understood. "I was teasin' ya. Jokin'! Get it?"

Understanding sank in and her shoulders sagged.

"Remember when you teached me to shoot? You said, you pull de trigger and de reaction is de bullet comes out. Right?"

Huh? Why did she keep jumping from topic to topic?

"What does that gotta do with anythin'?"

"Well, you push my buttons and de reaction is I aggravate you. Is not a threat! Is just a normal reaction. So I ask, _please_ , don't push my buttons. Unless you want dat my bad temper explodes and I aggravate you. And dis is _not_ a threat; is a normal reaction and I am asking please."

Creed breathed out and shook his head.

"D'ya really have ta blow stupid, small-time stuff out o' proportion?"

"Sorry, but is part of who I am. Is nothing I can do. You chose me, so… Bad temper and explosions when I think someone wants humiliate me, dat is all part of de package."

"I should have read the small print beforehand."

She groaned and rubbed her face.

"I'm cold, and wet, and I have a headache! I'm going to bed and sleep and forget we had dis stupid fight." She turned abruptly to Portuguese: "God! What a fucking waste!"

"Yeah. Do that. An' get yer head straight while ya're at it; ya belong t'me and ya ain't leavin' _ever_!"

He was going to get dressed and go out for a drink. Fucking waste indeed!

* * *

Isabel was sitting on the bed, her PJs on, and taking deep breaths. She wanted nothing but to break everything around her. Every little thing. She could imagine herself going methodically through every room destroying everything. And taking particular care with his clothes. And his jeep. Oh, what she dreamed of doing to that stupid jeep!

Fortunately, she was not retarded.

This was not a fight she could win with petty revenge. No fight with that dumb, stubborn asshole was ever going to be a fight she could win with petty revenge.

And the most stupid thing was that she felt like crying her heart out! They had been getting along so well. Sure she had had to put her foot down with that 'girl' story. Sure, she had had to lose her temper a bit over the 'Izzie' business. But it had been a month – over a month! – of perfect living together. Even if he had teased her when they'd gone hunting, it had always been good-naturedly. And then he threatened to humiliate her like it was the most normal thing in the world for him to do! What did that stupid ass have for brains? Did he enjoy getting her angry?

But no. She was not getting riled up again. The man was out clearing his head, and she had to clear her own before he got back.

Right. From now on, she'd simply have to keep herself together and not let her temper flare. Next time he started acting like a jerk, she'd take a deep breath and ask him, nice and sweet, if he was joking or being serious.

And if he was being serious?

She still couldn't blow up. That would not end well. The man escalated things all by himself and he didn't even listen when she tried to calm the situation down. No. If he ever turned out to be serious…

What would she do?

Set priorities! There were limits: he could not hit her. If he did, that was the end of it. She'd die, sure, but she should have died two or three times by now. Hell, she had died for real once, according to the man. She was living on extra time so if she had to die to teach the man a lesson, fine. What other choices did she have anyway? Run away and spend the rest of her life, a very short life, looking over her shoulder? That was not for her. No. She'd face him. She'd die. He'd learn he should have respected her limits and he'd regret being an asshole. How comforting for her dead soul to know he was sorry!

Now, to make sure things never got that far…

Sex. Or better yet, no sex. That should be a fitting punishment for him. The problem was that he could force her if he lost his temper, so she had to make sure he wouldn't lose his temper. Because if he did rape her… That was another limit that could not be crossed.

Right. Now this fixation of his with her threatening him was another problem. How could she tell him this action equals that consequence and not make it sound as a threat? Because he was very likely going to take it as a threat not matter how she put it.

God! She really had a bad headache! It made her want to cry. Such a crybaby she was that night! That was the man's fault too, she decided. Ruining her evening, her bath, her mood… Asshole! Stupid, stupid…

Ok, deep breath and back to business. How to handle the man's temper?

First of all, never mention the possibility of leaving him again. She had definitely not expected him to be so touchy about that. It made him look so insecure and that really didn't match his usual self. Of course, that stance of uber-confidence might be a mask. He might have deep-seated insecurities. From what she'd seen so far, he didn't have friends – or wanted them – so maybe… maybe he longed for a human connection but didn't know how to handle it and was scared to death of losing the only one he had right now. The man was clearly dysfunctional when it came to normal, social behaviour, so that could very well be it.

Isabel had the epiphany then! Greek history! Or Roman, but probably Greek. Anyway, old classic times. Her History teacher had told them about this war that was taking ages and which the women of the city or country or something had wanted to put an end to so they had gone on a sex strike of sorts. And if they were forced, they were to stand still and act like corpses or something. She could pull that off! If she didn't flat out tell him 'no', he wouldn't feel the need to go against her just to show her she couldn't tell him what to do and not do. She'd just say she was mad or… or unhappy. She could add tears to the mix and see how he reacted to it. Anyway, she was very much not in the mood for any sex at all. And if he insisted, she'd just open her legs, tell him to do his thing and be snappy about it, and, hopefully, he would realise it was not in his best interest to aggravate her.

Of course she couldn't try that approach too often, but the man had spent an entire month acting like a normal human being, surely they wouldn't get into fights regularly. Once he realised he better avoid some topics… Uh… Why wait for the man to realise anything? She could spell it out for him.

That was it! The moment Victor arrived… she glanced at the watch. It was almost 9pm. Dinner. They had been supposed to have dinner out as there wasn't any food in the apartment. He was probably eating right now. Another surge of fury had her closing her hands into tight fists, even as she felt a wave of weeping rage wash over her.

But she refused to cry. No dumb boyfriend of hers had ever made her cry, and she was not about to let Victor Sabretooth Creed be the first. He was out having dinner while she was stuck in the house, was he? Well, good for him! Maybe a full stomach made him less of an ass. She wasn't hungry anyway. An unpleasant queeziness made her not even want to think about food. Probably a result of mixing a recent stomach bug with impotent fury.

Deep breath.

Once the man got back… It all depended on his state of mind when he got back, really. She'd play it by ear. She just had to be careful not to let her temper flare, that's all. She could do it. Unlike a very specific asshole, Isabel was very well capable of controlling her anger.

Besides, she couldn't forget that even though she…

Isabel breathed out. It needed asking: did she still stood by the idea that she loved him? Even after today? Could she admit that she loved an asshole who threatened to humilliate her and came so very close to rape her or beat her or both?

She groaned and rubbed her face. Of course she didn't feel love when he was like _that_ , but there had been a very stupid, masochist and dangerous enjoyment during the confrontation. At least in the beginning. It had felt great telling him she'd off herself first so he couldn't do it. Just to spite him! It was insane and ridiculous and… Damn, she'd nearly gloated at his half-shocked, half-raving expression when she'd said it. Teach him to aggravate her.

Not healthy at all. But did she still love him?

Isabel sighed deeply. Of course, she did. Why else had she flown off her handle that easily? And she still wanted the asshole to come back and cuddle her and… and just be his normal, playful, relaxed self. Was that asking for too much?

The problem was that she couldn't confuse her feelings and his. She might love him, but Victor Creed did not love her. He probably liked her only as a housekeeper and a fuckdoll that had given him way too much work and which had better pay off.

If she wanted to create a comfortable new life for herself, she had to keep her head cold, more than just cool, and think three and four times before she did or said anything that might set off his bad temper.

* * *

It was past midnight when Creed parked the jeep. He had started and ended a fight at a bar, eaten dinner, gotten laid and sorted his head.

If the woman was mellow when he entered his house, and was ready to apologise for being a nagging ass, he'd let the whole story drop. Otherwise, he'd set her straight once and for all.

Creed was not stupid. He knew women could be the demon. He remembered Birdy all too well! They had those mood swings that sent whatever little brains they had out the window and then acted a bit too brazen for their own good. The difference was that Birdy didn't want to die, nor was she interested in getting beaten regularly, and Isabel was a bit on the suicidal. If he did end up beating her, he had a feeling she'd do something too stupid for him to let her live.

So, if the woman was still being uppity, he would have to stick to roughing her up a bit instead of actually giving her the beating she needed. Beatings had never set her straight before anyway. Maybe he should bring up how she supposedly loved him, which meant she should be doing everything to keep him happy, not aggravated. That sounded like a smart approach.

He got the pizza box from the back seat and locked the jeep.

The stupid thing was that the woman had spent over a month being the perfect little lover. A teasing minx eager for sex and always ready to learn another trick. She'd been mellow, unobtrusive, attentive to his wishes, willing to adapt herself to his preferences… Perfect! Ruth's girls wouldn't have done a better job. Well, skills aside. The woman still had a lot to learn. He had been so looking forward to adding cooking and housekeeping to the list and then she'd blown for nothing.

Creed got to the door and searched his pocket for the k… He distinguished the tell tale sound of someone standing up and realised that the woman had been sitting on the other side of the door, waiting for him. The next moment the door was open.

Her big brown eyes gazed guardedly at his face for a moment, then she opened the door wide so he could come in. Not a word.

"I brought ya pizza," he dropped the box on the table. "I don't want ya starvin' even if ya deserved it."

"Thank you," she said carefully as she approached the table.

But she merely ran a finger over the box and didn't even sit down.

"Ya ain't eaten since lunch and ya didn't eat anythin' o' substance in the last days either. Ya better not be thinkin' 'bout startin' a hunger strike."

She shook her head thoughtfully.

"I don't want make you angry."

"Then eat. If I went to all the trouble of gettin' ya food, the least ya can do is eat."

She looked up at him then opened the box and sat down. She had gotten her sense back, apparently.

"I usually control my bad temper very well," she said softly. "But sometimes people say something and I explode."

"Yeah, I've noticed."

The woman picked a slice and held it in front of her. Then she breathed out and took a bite.

"Ya should learn t'have a better control of yer temper, ya know. Ya can't go through life blowin' up over nuthin'."

She stopped chewing and her body stiffened. Creed crossed his arms: her temper must be flaring up again. Some truths are just hard to swallow, aren't they?

The woman clenched her teeth and held her breath for a second. Then she breathed out tersely as she glared at the slice.

"Ok," she dropped the slice. "I can't do dis."

Now what? She got up and faced him.

"I said to you one time: I don't play games. I can, if I want, but I don't like and play games makes me irritate."

"What are ya talkin' about?"

Why was she always beating about the bush?

"Is like dis: some things make me explode and dat is not going to change. And if I explode wid you, you get angry – and I completely understand dat – and den I get more angry and you get more angry and… is a ball of snow and doesn't end well."

"So what? Ya want me mincin' my words 'round ya? Is that it?"

"I want…" Deep breath.

The way things were going, she better take a dozen deep breaths while she was at it or the night really wouldn't end well.

"I don't want make you angry. I want make you happy. And are only two things dat make me explode. One: someone tries humilliate or really humilliates me. I go crazy. _Really_ crazy. Today was nothing compared wid when I go crazy. Two: someone tries force me to do something I don't want. I don't want know de consequences when dat happens, everything goes to de devil because no one forces me to do something I don't want. I can decide to do something even if I don't want, but I don't let anyone force me. And dat is good! Is why you know dat I am here, wid you, because _I want_ and not because… because I don't have a choice."

Creed frowned. The woman was under the wrong impression here. Maybe that's why she thought she could leave him.

"Ya _don't_ have a choice. Ya're stuck wi'me fer as long as I want ya t'be."

She shook her head.

"Of course I have a choice! I can die. Is still my choice. Not a good one, is true, but is a choice. I choosed to be wid you because I want be wid you, not because is you or die. And dat is a good thing, right? If you had forced me to stay wid you, den you had to be always watching me, see if I try to escape you; but because I choosed to be wid you… you know for certain dat I don't want leave. Dat's good, right?"

Maybe. But it also meant she could change her mind.

"So, now you know what makes me explode. Can you please tell me what makes you angry? Dat way I can be very careful and never make you angry."

Did she think he was stupid? That he couldn't see she was trying to maneuver him into agreeing to bow down to her whims?

"Ya think I don't know what ya're tryin' t'do?"

An unamused sneer pull her lips sideways.

"I _want_ dat you know what I'm trying to do. If I don't do things dat make you angry, maybe you have no reason to make me explode. And if you know what makes me explode, maybe you don't do it accidentally. Because I don't like explode, you know? I passed my entire life learning to control my temper. I act and talk like a nice lady, well-educated and sophisticated and in control; not like… like a brute from de mountains. I act nice, and everyone admires me and likes me, and if I'm mean to someone, dey say I have good reason. If I act like a brute and fight and use bad language, I can have all de reason in the world, dat they never give me reason and dey look at me like I'm garbage. Like I'm a… a… what's the word? Oh, you get de idea!"

Yeah, he did.

"So ya got yerself a nice lil' mask that breaks way too easily, huh?"

She let a bit of proud aloofness show in the way she shook her head.

"My mask _never_ breaks." Then she glared lightly. " _You_ de only one dat makes dat."

So she wanted him to be careful not to set her off, huh? No humiliating and no forcing her. Creed looked at the pizza.

"Eat." Which got him an annoyed roll of the eyes. "I suggests ya get yer 'nice' mask back on, woman. I ain't promisin' not ta break it t'pieces, but I got a feelin' I'll be less likely t'do so if ya keep it on fer as long as possible."

She glanced at him seriously then turned to the table and looked at the pizza as if it was two weeks olds. Still, she picked the slice up.

"I think de adrenaline of our fight is making my stomach instable," she grumbled. "I think is a possibility I throw up if I eat now."

"Ya got the weakest stomach I've ever seen on anyone."

Next time, he'd let her starve. It's what she wanted to do anyway!

He turned his back on her to go to bed but stopped on the doorway. There was at least one thing she was right about: she better know what set him off so she could avoid doing so.

"It's easy not t'make me angry. Just don't aggravate me, 's all. Don't try t' threaten me, don't try t'tell me what t'do, don't try t'go against me, don't mess up my stuff, don't be curious 'bout what ain't yer business an' don't get in my way. That's all."

Creed entered the room and stopped anew.

"And if ya don't want me pushin' yer buttons, keep 'em out o'sight. Back in the bath, ya were practically beggin' fer me t'push 'em."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	9. Vancouver: Morning After

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **9\. Vancouver: Morning After**

Isabel couldn't find a comfortable position on the wretched sofa. Her mother had told her that to be a grown-up meant, among other things, to know when to swallow frogs. All her life, Isabel had never done it. Well, she might have pretended to swallow them, on occasion, but then she'd gotten back on whomever had forced her into that situation.

Now, however, it was time to act like a grown-up. She might not swallow all the frogs the stupid man cooked up, there were limits, but she was definitely going to have to swallow a few and not lift a finger to get back.

It made her sick, the thought of it.

And the sofa was both too soft and too hard.

She dozed for a few moments, but never really sank into sleep. Ghosts of people and events kept poking her back to wakefulness, though they never quite became nightmares, even if the men that had kidnapped her had showed their faces a couple of times. She was always aware it was a dream and fear never got the better of her.

After the second time that blasted pair made an appearance in her restless nap, Isabel got off the sofa and started pacing the living room.

She hadn't dreamt of the men in quite a few nights. Why were they popping up now? Obviously, because Victor had been so very close to raping her that same afternoon. In his head, hurting someone, whether by hitting or raping, was a way of teaching people a lesson. And he had almost… She didn't know why he'd stopped, but for a moment she'd thought he was just… But he hadn't, and that was what mattered.

For the millionth time, Isabel told herself she must be careful. She must make sure they could settle into a co-existance that didn't set off their tempers. Because she was sure she wouldn't be able to curb her flaring temper in the heat of the moment, and he sure as hell had no intention of curbing anything. More importantly, she didn't really want to die, no matter what she might say in the heat of the moment, and if she stepped the line too much, the man would actually kill her.

She walked up to the window and looked over the sleeping city. With all those lights, it looked anything but sleepy.

She missed the quiet and darkness of the countryside.

She missed Victor's good mood and ease. His playfulness. That quiet strength that stood nearby, protective. The thrill of knowing he was a bomb ready to blow. How stupid could she be? Because, guess what, the bomb had blown.

Another wave of tears assaulted her but Isabel took a deep breath and resumed her pacing.

Quit thinking about the past, near or far, and focus on the future. The nearby one. As in next morning.

Would Victor be in a good mood? She was so tired of these stupid fights the man escalated for no good reason! Even if they had only fought once in over a month, she was still sick and tired of it.

Then there had been the fight in those woods in Minnesotta. He had taken quite a long time to get over his bad mood then.

Isabel sat back on the sofa and felt like crying again. She hadn't felt this down since those first two weeks, down in Mexico. Oh, stop it already! She breathed in and told herself this one fight had been as necessary as the one in Minnesotta. Back then he had learnt that beating her wasn't going to force her into anything. This time, he had learnt that humilliating her was not going to get him any perks, quite the opposite.

Both lines had had to be set, and there would never have been a nice way of setting them with Victor Creed. Isabel might have learnt she could not play the 'leave' card, but the man had learnt that, if he wanted her alive and pliable (or for as long as, one mustn't forget that), then he had better not step on her toes too much. That was it. The man might spend a night or a week sulking about it, but he either took it or left it. Period.

After all, living together meant adapting to each other. Isabel might be prepared to be more accomodating than he would ever be, but he also had to do some adapting. And he was going to buck and kick every time he had to. And then he'd… give her some type of rough treatment till he got over it.

But what type of rough treatment? That uncertainty was eating her inside out!

Isabel rubbed her face and held back a frustrated grunt. What she really needed was to get some sleep. Isabel frowned. She'd sleep like a baby if she had some sex. Chewing on her inner lip, she told herself off. She was starting to feel addicted to sex. If there were nightmares, sex fixed it. If she was cold, sex fixed it. If she couldn't sleep, sex fixed it. It fixed everything! Only it didn't really fix anything for real, did it? It simply covered the problem. And the problem, right now, was that she wanted Victor to be nice and accomodating, gentle, the way he had been through the nights in Mexico and Alberta. Going over to the man's bed and enticing him into sex would certainly smooth him over and make the problem apparently go away but... She wasn't so addicted as to humilliate herself by crawling into his bed after that fight. She might want him to get over it, but she was not going to beg for his attention, not even as a way to soften his hurt ego. He could come after her (should!), and he could even be an asshole about it, but _she_ was not going after him.

She tried to make herself comfortable – which was impossible in that sofa – and forced herself to doze off. A couple more chaotic dreams that never lost awareness of their dreaminess and Isabel was relieved to see some sunlight grace the sky. The next moment, she was up and quietly hunting for pencil and paper.

When she found some, she sat down at the table and started working on a shopping list, neatly divided into essentials, niceties and extras. It always paid off to be prepared with unstable moods. If Victor got up fully refreshed, she'd be able to get everything she wanted; otherwise, she could abort the shopping trip once the essentials were done with.

The list wasn't exactly finished when a shiver ran up Isabel's spine and she turned abruptly. Victor Creed was standing at the bedroom door, naked, and eyeing her thoughtfully. Actually, dangerously might be a better word.

Isabel had a gut feeling and got slowly up, careful not to look aggravating or, worse, eager. Dignity above all. What she needed to do right now was swallow down a frog while the man put the final nail on the whole leaving, not-leaving story. Soon enough, she knew, the frog would morph into pleasure, as the man got over the whole melodrama and she finally got what she'd spent the night aching over.

He walked towards her and Isabel chastisised herself at the way his fluid movements, those solid muscles, churned her insides. He grabbed her by an arm and turned her around, pushing her torso roughly onto the table top. Isabel would have preferred it if he had marched her into the bedroom, but, as he ripped the bottom of her PJs (what was the man's obssession with ripping clothes? Not that she had complained when he'd done it before, when his mood was playful), Isabel decided it was better if pissed off sex stayed off the bed.

It was not at all as she had expected. The man was harsh and cold, but not too rough. Actually, what upset Isabel the most was the way he kept her pinned on the table, the way he pushed off her hands when she had tried to touch him. It made her feel like she was being marked. Like a tree being pissed on as a dog marked his turf. It was not satisfying in the least, quite the opposite.

The moment he came inside her, he grabbed her neck and pulled her torso up, though still not allowing her back to rest on his chest.

"Ya're mine," he growled from behind her. " _Mine_."

Isabel almost said she knew, but bit her tongue and kept silent.

"Get dressed," he let go of her. "We're goin' out fer breakfast."

Isabel didn't look his way, so as to not give away her disappointment. If all went according to her wishes, Victor had finally put an end to the matter. So what if that had meant 'turf-marking sex'? That was just a little frog she'd have to swallow and, anyway, it would be satisfying next time. It was best not to stir up his anger again, especially not when she wanted him to realise that yes, she was his. Duh! She had chosen to be his because life with him had been more vivid than with the X-Men or while working in California. She _wanted_ to be his and savour the thrill of living with him! Why didn't that make the man calm down? Would it make him happier if she said she was with him because he had forced her into it? It was insane!

Feeling cold and awkward, the frog she'd just swallowed choking her throat, Isabel hurried towards the bathroom.

"Hey! Get back here. What is this?"

Isabel went back and saw him waving the piece of paper she'd been writing on.

"De shopping list."

"Why ain't it in English?"

She was still choking so she shrugged and tried to force her voice out softly, reminding herself that she could control her temper, unlike some assholes.

"I just wrote de list. I didn't think about English or no English."

Why would she even think to write in English? She had only ever made an effort to do so when she was writing him those stupid letters.

"Hurry up," he grunted.

She did. She also had a regrettably short shower that didn't dispell the cold that had sunk into her body. Or her soul, if she thought about it. Only she didn't want to think about it. She only wanted to take a deep breath and hold back her kicking anger and weepiness until Victor's mood finished balancing itself. Just so he could go back to being calm and pleasant. Just so she could relax and act like herself again. Just so she could lie in his arms after some relaxing sex, or next to him, or… She sighed. Just so she could get her hunger back – because her stomach was still queasy – and get some proper sleep again.

Sitting on the bed, Isabel rested her head on her hands as Victor had a shower himself. She wasn't fully dressed yet, but there was a loaded heaviness weighing her down.

"You need to eat and get some sleep," she grumbled to herself aloud, in her native Portuguese. "You'll feel all better then. Eat and sleep and everything will be just fine. Perfectly fine."

However, until then, she had to keep her head high and her moodiness securely hidden. The man would gloat at any sign of weakness on her part and she had never, in her whole life, revealed weaknesses to people that could strike back. Sure, there was a weakness Victor was aware of, but the man was not the least interested in poking it. It wouldn't be of any advantage to him to risk bringing up her traumatic kidnap and have her crumble to a heap. Not that she would, but he wouldn't risk it. Not unless he got fed up with her and decided to get rid of…

The running water came to a stop and Isabel took a deep breath, leveled her head.

"You are strong." Even if she was a weakling frail, as Victor said, when compared to mutants and professional hitmen and torturers and… " _You are strong_. Always have been, always will be. Now make sure that asshole sees nothing but your strength."

She was putting on her shoes when the man came out of the bathroom, hair dripping and a towel around his waist. Oh, it simply maddened Isabel to distraction the way that body stirred her up inside. She hurried on with the shoes and left the bedroom.

"He's pissed at you," she reminded herself in silence, "and _you_ are pissed at him, too. So get those hormones to behave for once!"

Only, obviously, her hormones couldn't care less about any fights. A resteless pussy, as Isabel's grandma had so wisely put it.

"Ready," the man asked sullenly, not even sparing her a glance as he grabbed the jeep keys.

Isabel grabbed the list and her bag and hurried after him. Well, maybe he'd soften up if he smelled her arousal. Maybe they could have normal sex now (or after they got back from breakfast) and dispell the awkwardness of the 'turf-marking sex'. She was dying to have him properly inside her and to relax in his arms.

* * *

Isabel wasn't quite sure why they hadn't simply walked to the place. It was close enough and there would have been much less hassle to park. She would have followed Victor into the café, but the man had placed a hand on her shoulder, pulled her to his side and led her on. Not that she was complaining! Sure, it might still feel like he was only marking what belonged to him, but she didn't really mind being that close to him. Especially because there were people on the street. Plenty. Men.

She didn't have time to glance about the red-brick buildings, the trees lining the paveway or even the patios that dotted Yaletown's streets. Victor didn't give her time and, besides, Isabel was busy controlling her emotions.

Because she was safe!

Perfectly safe.

As safe as if she were locked up in a basement under Victor's cabin in the woods.

As safe as…

Then why was she on the verge of panicking, right?

Anyway, for as long as she didn't allow the slightest shiver of fear to touch her, all would be well. The last thing she wanted was for Victor to smell her fear. Even because she wasn't afraid. She was just… nervous.

This was why Victor had taken her to such a remote location, after leaving Mexico. Because she was always nervous around people. She had forgotten about it while in the wooded emptiness. Now, though, she'd start working on getting over it.

"What are ya gonna have?"

Isabel snapped to reality. They were at the counter and the woman on the other side of the counter looked impatient. Looking over at the wide boards spewing lists of menus and orders and what-not, she gauged how steady her stomach felt.

"Milk and toast. Two toast. Simple. No butter, no nothing."

The woman cocked an eyebrow and shrugged.

"Make it three sirloin steaks," Victor said, before leading her away from the counter.

His hand, so possessively on her shoulder, had never abandoned her, not once, since they'd left the jeep. Was he aware how much she welcomed it? Was he aware that it made her feel untouchable in that sea of people? Because Isabel hadn't been aware of it till the moment she sat at an empty table and he let go of her.

"Ya're still hellbent on starvin', ya ass?"

"Is like Dallas," Isabel shot immediately. "All de adrenaline of yesterday and… de entire fight and drama and everything. My stomach isn't right and I don't want to throw up de moment I start eating."

The man grunted and eased a bit.

"If ya ask me, ya're so hungry, ya're feelin' sick."

Maybe. "In dat case, I eat de toast and start feel hungry, and den I ask for more to eat."

Victor shrugged and sat back, glanced about the place. Isabel followed his example and glanced about too.

No one was looking her way and everyone she could see was either part of a group or focused on their smartphones. Nothing to worry about. She breathed out and relaxed a bit, but maintained her vigilance.

"Here," Isabel snapped to attention and saw the order ticket in front of her. "Go get our orders."

She looked up at him but his face was expressionless. Not that he is was fooling anyone: he had noticed her uneasiness and was hoping to increase it so she'd want to go back to a life in reclusion. Not going to happen, mister.

Isabel picked the ticket and dropped a carefree 'sure', even going as far as smirking. Then she faced the counter where people were collecting their orders. There was a line. Feigning normalcy, she took a place in it.

It was like being back then, in the train station.

Isabel looked back regularly, ostensibly waving at Victor and smiling as if everything was perfectly fine. In reality, she was keeping an eye on the woman waiting behind her, not to mention keeping an eye on everyone close enough to attack her with a needle of sleeping drugs. Even if she was obviously safe!

Her stomach grew more unstable.

It didn't surprise her. Isabel's bad nightmares made her nauseous, whether she had eaten or not. Sure, that didn't happen anymore, but, right now, her nerves were as badly wrecked as if she'd just had one.

Perhaps that stomach bug had simply been nerves, it occurred to her. Maybe she hadn't even noticed how nervous she was at the notion of returning to the crowds of cities.

Isabel collected the tray with her order and returned. As she set it down on the table, she was proud she had only spilled a bit of milk twice. The way she felt inside, there should be next to nothing in that glass.

"De meat is not ready yet," she informed him.

"What d'ya mean, it ain't ready? I said I wanted it _extra_ rare!"

Grumbling, he got up and left. Isabel breathed out.

If her queasy stomach was due to crowded nerves, then the nonsense ended now. If it was the adrenaline of their fight… it still ended now. Victor was right on one thing: she had eaten very little of substance over the last few days and her body was not going to keep strong if she kept it up.

By the time Victor got back, growling under his breath, she had forced a quarter of the milk down and was getting busy on the toast.

"Damn assholes," he grunted, putting a plate of meat on her tray. "Had ta make 'em cook two more steaks. That one's medium rare. Eat it."

Seriously? The toast was getting stuck on her throat and the milk hadn't quite made it to its destination yet, and he wanted her eating meat?

"Yer half-starved!" Must have noticed her expression. "That's why ya're feelin' sick. Eat!"

Isabel nodded.

"After I finish de milk and de toast."

That seemed to satisfy him, as he focused on eating his own steaks. Isabel, though, didn't feel as optimistic. It wasn't that she didn't realise he might be right, but…

Victor glanced up at her when he was about to finish his first steak. Isabel had just finished the last piece of toast, labouriosly pushed down, and was placing the steak in front of her.

It wasn't hunger. If it were, the light breakfast would have eased the feeling of sickness and allowed appetite to surface. Instead, all the pieces of toast were securely stuck on her throat. It was nerves.

"I need to go to de bathroom," she said softly.

"Restroom," he corrected.

Whatever! She didn't say her trademark 'isso', which, although meaning 'that', would be more accurately translated as 'who cares'.

"Well, what are ya waitin' fer?"

Not exactly his permission, but she hadn't wanted to waltz away too freely, just in case he hadn't fully gotten over the 'leaving' drama.

Isabel was careful to avoid people on her way to the restroom. She had to wait a bit for a stall to empty, then she got inside and took a deep breath.

If the toast was not going down, it was going up. She wouldn't be able to eat any meat otherwise. So she put two fingers down her throat and got rid of it all. There! She felt so much better now.

She washed her mouth profusely before returning to the table, determined to eat every piece of the meat.

"Are ya ok?"

Bristling, she looked the man brazenly in the eye.

"I am fine." Each word clearly stressed to bring the point across.

"Ya don't look fine. Ya look the exact opposite."

Well, if he thought the opposite of fine would make her run off back into the woods he had another thing coming. Isabel forced a smile. He never did believe her when she said she was fine unless she was smiling anyway.

"Looks make mistakes. I am _fine_."

"Ya knows I can smell ya're lyin', right?"

Asshole.

"I'm not fine because you don't let me eat. When I eat, I'm fine."

He shrugged and quit pestering her, so she could finally focus on the steak. Surprisingly, it went down far more smoothly than the toast, even though it was almost cold. Good. It made the new attempt at a smile feel natural.

"You are right. De meat was a good idea. And now I _am_ fine, see?"

Victor had finished and looked actually surprised at her admission.

"Told ya so," he said mildly. "Now hurry up. Ain't ya got some shoppin' t'do?"

Isabel was looking forward to leaving. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself she was, above all, looking forward to having his hand on her shoulder. On her hip, on the nape of her neck, anywhere! But as they did get up to return to the jeep, Victor pushed through the people and left her to follow behind. Asshole.

She followed him fuming. He was such a stupid, ass-holish jerk! Why was he going out of his way to aggravate her? Did he enjoy having her in a rotten mood? She was that close to asking him if he wanted her to make a run for it, turning his back on her and not bothering being possessive. Because, let's face it, he was a possessive ass. So why wasn't he keeping her close by him? Especially when _she wanted_ him to!

A male excuse me, hurried and pushy, froze her world then. She had felt his body touch her arm, but then it turned into a thousand hands snaking over her and… and… it was just a memory! Not real! Not… Strong hands grab her then, pull her to safety, don't hold yer breath dimmwit, hold her up as her legs turn to jelly, her vision swimming, as her stomach turns violently, her world getting faint, as the meat comes rushing out.

"I shouldn't have brought ya here."

A ray of urgency shines through the icy fogginess.

"No," she tries to get up and realises she's stitting, shivering wildly. Where? "No. I'm fine. Fine."

Blinking, Isabel recognised the street, where people were slowing their steps to look at her. She was sitting in the jeep. Exposed to the people going by. She closed her eyes to shut it all out and leaned down, trying to cease the shaking of her body. Why did she feel so cold? It wasn't normal.

"Fine my ass," Victor grumbled, rubbing a soothing hand down her back.

"I am not running away from this," she said sternly to the pavement, anger making the shivering worse. "I'm not hiding away. This is exactly what I need to do: to be in the middle of fucking people and put an end to these shitty reactions."

He didn't say anything, his hand softly on her back. She wanted him to hold her and make her feel safe, but she wouldn't say it. It would make her look weak in his eyes. Weaker than she already looked.

"Shush," he said in a low voice and she breathed out. "Ya're safe."

Say it again, she pleaded. Hold me. Hold me tight.

"I _know_! I'm fine. Perfectly fine."

Isabel leaned forward a bit more, till her shoulder found his leg, then she leaned sideways onto him.

"Estás segura," he said in Spanish. Ah, it was so much more reassuring when he said it in Spanish, the word so similar to her native Portuguese.

"No one can touch me," she forced the idea in so the shivering would stop, "because you'll kill whoever dares to do so."

"I'll kill whoever as much as _looks_ at ya the wrong way." Oh, had she said that aloud? "Ya're mine, remember? No one messes with what's mine."

That clicked something inside her. She had told him, the day before, to say she was his, but she'd done so just to calm him down. To reassure him. This time, though, it was different. Isabel looked up at him.

"Say that again, please." he frowned and she was afraid he wouldn't say it. "No one touches me because…"

She left the sentence dangling, not wanting to say it herself.

"Ya belong t'me." He said, his voice low, almost secretive, and Isabel felt the shivering ebb away. She would always be safe next to him. " 'Cause ya're mine, Inês."

It shattered the sense of safety, and Isabel jumped up, straightening, glaring wildly – even she was aware of it.

"Are you insane, man!" She hissed, tears of rage welling up. "Do not ever say my name in public again! People can hear you!"

"Shut up!"

Like hell she would! All her life, she'd been Inês. Inês Sofia whenever someone was pissed. Inês had meant normalcy, Inês Sofia had meant something wrong. In this world of mutants, though, Isabel had come to mean normalcy, while Inês had become a safe haven, which would remain safe only for as long as no one knew about it. It had held her core unscathed through the telepathic torture, a password to her inner mind that had not been broken. And now, since Victor had used it so often through those hellish first nights, it meant I'm safe in your arms, away from all pain and evil. For as long as only Victor knew it. But after two weeks of being called Nesi, that name had garnered a sense of ease and playfulness; it felt like Victor's good mood and strength. It felt safe, too, even if less momentous.

"Nesi," she said. "Nesita can easily be tracked to my real name, if people know Spanish; but not Nesi, not here, where everyone speaks English. Use _that_ if you want to call me something else than Isabel."

"I've told ya," he growled.

"I confess!" She interrupted, eager to make him forget that she was telling him what to do. "I like it when you call me Nesi. I love it! It makes me feel safe, ok? I admit it."

He held her gaze in stern silence. Angry silence, most likely. He always looked so handsome when he was half-snarling, a fang peeking sexily out. Is that why you're always provoking him, a little voice nagged her. As if the man didn't do more than his share when it came to provocation and aggravation.

"Get in the car. I'm takin' ya back t'the house."

"No! I am _not_ running away," she snapped.

"Shut yer yap, already! An' quit speakin' in Portuguese!"

Wha… She'd been speaking in Portuguese? Oh… Had the man understood everything she had said?

"I'm not hiding like a coward," she explained. Should she repeat everything she'd been saying? She wasn't even sure if she could recall everything she'd said! "I need…"

God, her mouth tasted awful.

"I need aguardente."

"What?"

Oh, why couldn't she just speak Portuguese? It was such a hassle always having to speak in English, always looking for words that never felt right.

"Is a… a alcoolic drink. Strong. Very strong. Strong enough to burn. Like whiskey!"

"Ya gone nuts, woman? Ya ain't in no state t'drink! Get in."

Dumb ass. But she did get in, buckled up.

"Is not to drink," she explained, when he sat down at the wheel. "Is to wash my mouth. Is better dan water: burns and disinfects all bad taste."

He cocked an eyebrow then shrugged.

"Ya're lucky I wanna have some liquor in the house."

The drive was short and Isabel was grateful for it. She had to wait in the jeep for over ten minutes and, for some reason she couldn't quite understand, she smiled as she saw Victor come out of the drinking store with two bulging bags. She opened the door as he put the bags away and got a bottle of brandy. First she poured a bit onto her hand and rubbed her lips, then she got a mouthful and swilled her mouth thoroughly, spitting it out.

"Ah! Very better!"

"Get in," he said. "I'm takin' ya back t'the house."

"No, no!" But then she caught herself, noticing the undisguised snarl. "Please. First, I have to eat and is no food in de house. I'm again in… what is de word? Jejum. When you have nothing in your stomach after de night."

"Fast?"

"No, is not fast and slow, is…"

"I _know_! Why d'ya think breakfast is called that? 'Cause it's t' _break_ yer _fast_."

Fine, whatever.

"So I need anoder breakfast, ok? And then make shopping for food to have in de house."

Victor closed the back of the jeep.

"Then let's hurry up. And ya have better not throw up again or I'm takin' ya back to Alberta. Ya never got no problem eatin' yer proper meals there."

Isabel fastened her seat belt and looked at Victor. He looked annoyed as he got ready to join the traffic.

She looked away and sighed. She still wanted him to touch her, hold her, but she got the impression it was not going to happen. She could see him refusing to go into the supermarket with her, preferring to wait outside for her. In Mexico, he had never really wanted to accompany her when she went to markets. He'd done so only because she was weakened and needed a bodyguard. Here, he'd be willing to throw her to the wolves if it meant she'd lose her nerve and agree to return to the woods.

If they went back to the house, it would be easy to lure the man into sex. At least she hoped it would. They hadn't had sex ever since they'd left the woods. She hadn't been in the mood with her stomach bug, and he hadn't shown much interest either. It once more became clear to to her that she'd been using sex as a way to feel safe, therapy, as she'd called it, and that she might be confusing horniness and insecurity right about now. Maybe. In any case, she wanted him to hold her and sex would give her that, on top of a few more things. She needed a fix, since that unpleasant 'turf sex' did not count.

The idea struck her out of nowhere.

"Skirts!" She said, getting his immediate attention in the shape of an annoyed frown. "You said you want me accessible. So I need skirts!"

"What, d'ya mean now?"

"Better buy de clodes first and den de food. Is not good to leave de food in de car for a long time."

"Ya can get 'em tomorrow. They ain't gonna run away."

He obviously wasn't getting a clear picture of what she was thinking.

"But you said you leave tomorrow to finish de documents, and I want…" Wait, better rephrase that idea. "I want dat _you_ choose your favourite skirts. I am going to use dem for _you_ , right? _Today_."

He glanced at her, a cocked eyebrow, and she grinned suggestively. Her head was working at full speed, checking exactly what type of pieces she'd need: full skirt, either about knee-length or longer, for going out, and a couple of mini skirts to use only in the house. Oh, pleated skirts! Dresses too.

Victor breathed out a what the heck.

"Let's get ya breakfast so ya don't faint while tryin' 'em clothes."

* * *

Isabel got the idea when she noticed the attendant in the empty shop texting. She tried to shoot it down, but she was dying to have the man holding her and her imagination pointed out there was fast paced music to drown any noise before offering thrilling snippets of 'what if' so she went over all the racks again.

"How long is this gonna take, woman?"

She understood his annoyance. She'd looked high and low but most of those skirts were not items she'd enjoy wearing. Either too tight or too short for her intents, either too shapeless or too colourful for her taste. She'd only picked two, in fact.

"Almost done!"

She grinned as she found a long dress with a zipper in the back.

"Come on! Come see how dey look in me." Oh, wait, can't tell him what to do. "Please. If you want."

She didn't wait for an answer. She hurried to the female changing room area and interrupted the texting attendant.

"Can he go in? He wants to choose de skirt dat looks best to my birthday party."

The young woman awarded her an annoyed glance and said it was ok.

"Thanks," Isabel turned back to see Victor approaching sullenly and went in.

They were all empty, but she still chose the furthest one. Before Victor could catch up, she had already undressed, put on a skirt and was now slipping into the dress.

"I'm waitin'," the man said.

"Den come in," she whispered.

It took a couple of seconds before he peeked in.

"What are ya doin'?"

Isabel pooled the skirt of the dress around her waist.

"Preparing a… I don't know de word. A story to hide de real thing?"

"A cover story? Fer what?"

For a moment, Isabel wondered if he would play along, but of course he would.

"To have certain dis skirts are exactly what I need to be accessible, I need to test dem. Now, come in, come in! Close de curtain. Careful now, push dis thing up," and she held out the open zipper, "and make it stuck in de bra, ok? Dat is very important."

His reflection on the mirror said he had no idea what she was trying to do, but he was in the very least curious enough to do as she'd told him. No, as she'd asked him. She didn't tell him to do anything, she asked. Nicely.

"Is stuck?"

"Yeah."

Isabel turned to him, still holding the rolled up skirt of the dress around her waist.

"So, you like de skirt?"

Victor looked down at it.

"Why are ya tryin' a dress over that skirt? And why d'ya want me in here with ya? There's hardly any room t'move!"

He still hadn't figured it out?

"De first test is if you like de skirt. De second test," and she couldn't help the wide grin, "is you finger me and see if de skirt makes dat easy or difficult."

He really had not seen it coming. Isabel almost burst out laughing at his surprised expression; instead, she told him she was waiting.

Victor glanced over to the curtain.

"Someone's gonna hear ya, ya know, an' come checkin' in on us."

She turned laughter into giggle.

"Dey don't hear _nothing_. Promise."

The next moment he'd pulled Isabel towards him and his hand was under the skirt. Only it wasn't full enough and the hem bit onto her leg, restricting his movements.

"Get up here," he placed her on the bench so she'd be higher up and the fabric would offer less resistance.

Isabel embraced him, biting his neck and enjoying his…

"Hello?"

"I told ya so," Victor grunted, letting go of her.

Isabel was off the bench instantly, dropping the skirt of the dress all around her and grabbing her hair in the back, as if in a ponytail, then she poked her head out of the curtains.

"Yes?"

"What do you think you're doing in there?"

Isabel breathed out in loud exasperation and turned so her back was exposed.

"Is _stuck_ , ok? And my hair is stuck too. He's fixing de problem."

Taking advantage that the attendant couldn't see her face, Isabel winked a conspiratory eye at a startled Victor.

"Oh. Do you need help?"

"No! Is fine." She forced out a pissed off voice. "Everything is _just_ fine, ok? He fixes dis in an instant."

Without waiting for the attendant to leave, Isabel went back into the changing room.

"Go on, quick," she moaned loudly. "Ouch! Careful wid de hair. Come on, come on…"

And she moaned a bit more.

"She's gone," Victor said flatly.

Isabel hadn't exactly expected that tone, or the way he was eyeing her suspiciously.

"Cover story completely prepared," she said, not as genially as before. "Test three is… is supposed to be sex."

"Ya're the fuckin' devil."

Was that supposed to be a compliment? He looked much too stern, if it was. Her grin faded alongside her high spirits.

"Dat is good or bad?"

Isabel gazed into those beautigul golden eyes and barely noticed she was holding her breath. Then he grabbed her by the nape of her neck and pulled her up for a hungry kiss, harsh and demanding.

"I ain't decided yet," he whispered, then pulled her hair. "Get those skirts up."

"Hey," she complained.

"Shush," he said unnecessarily loud, pulling her closer to him, a hand snaking down her ass, the other getting a better grip on her hair. "Next time, don't get yer hair stuck in the zipper."

And he pulled it some more. The jerk! And then _she_ was the devil!

"Be careful!" She answered in an equally loud voice, melting into his arms, grinning delightedly. "And hurry wid dat zipper."

The chuckle vibrated through his chest as he brushed her hand away from the zipper of his jeans so he could comply. Isabel closed her eyes and savoured the heavenly warmth filling her. Safe, oh so forever safe, in those strong arms.

"God, Veetohr!"

A sharp pain in her scalp woke her from her abandonment.

"Don't want ya blowin' such a carefully set up cover, Nesi," he chuckled in between pants, grinning like a cat.

Asshole! But she laughed and bit his shoulder harder.

"Come on," she moaned at his ear. "Fast, fast, fast."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	10. Vancouver: Shopping Therapy

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **10\. Vancouver: Shopping Therapy**

Isabel looked herself in the mirror and hardened her resolve.

Victor had been gone for six days and would be so for a few more days. She was alone.

Yesterday, she'd roamed the rooms of the penthouse. All four of them: kitchen, living room, bedroom and bathroom. She was starting to hate the place. It was just a rental so, when she had asked for Victor's permission to redecorate the place, he had quickly told her no. They'd only stick around until her documents were done with. The Canadian ones wouldn't take much longer, the Portuguese ones being a different story, and then he'd choose a place to stick her in for good.

"You're dallying," she told herself aloud. "Enough is enough."

Isabel breathed out and grabbed her bag. She stopped once more in front of the door.

"If Victor were around," she grumbled in her native Portuguese, "you'd have left an hour earlier!"

Just so she wouldn't look weak in his eyes. She picked the key and opened the door, locked it. Conscious of every step she took, Isabel reached the outside.

It was cloudy but warm. Cars were speeding up and down the roads.

Isabel lifted her head and turned south. Her strides picked up a confident rhythm she was far from feeling.

It had been in a city much like this one, while Victor had been elsewhere just like he was now, that she'd been taken by those mercs. To torture and… Stop thinking about it! It's in the past and the past is not in the habit of repeating itself!

Isabel was also fed up with that inner dialogue. It was pretty much the same every time she went out.

The first day Victor had left her alone, she had not left the flat. She'd been bored to death.

The second day, she had headed south and discovered George Wainborn Park. She'd sat by the water and had even managed to relax for a few minutes. When her phone had rung in the late eafternoon, she had answered Victor with a smile of victory, although he hadn't been thrilled about her outing.

"Oh, it was essential," she had explained. "I needed fresh bread."

Unfortunately, she had avoided heading to the stores area for so long, she had ended up not buying any bread.

The third day she hadn't had the heart to leave. The night had been spent in nauseating nightmare after disturbing nightmare and, though she had forced herself to sleep after each and every one, she had been too tired and had preferred to nap during the day.

The fourth day she really had had to get some fresh bread.

"Why didn't ya just ordered it delivered?" He had growled after asking her what she'd done during the day.

"Que disparate! You think I'm afraid of go to de shop, huh? You think? Because I'm not and I go out whenever I want because I have no problem wid dat, you hear?"

She'd hung up on his face and then she had had to put up with twenty minutes of angry ranting from the man. Yeah, well, teach him to imply she was a scaredy wimp. Besides, was he serious about allowing a complete stranger to come up to her door step? Didn't _that_ sound dangerous to him? It was much safer to go out in public areas than to allow someone to pretty much destroy the sanctity of the penthouse.

Isabel had suffered every inch of the way to the shops, looking for a bakery. She had even had to ask people for one. Although, truth be said, she asking women for directions hadn't been that terrible. It was just a pity everyone spoke too fast and used expressions that might as well had been Chinese. But she'd found a bakery, she'd bought bread, and she'd hurried back to the house.

Another hellish night dictated a day of boredom stuck indoors. What she needed was a piano or a guitar. And skirts. That had made her smile.

So, today, Isabel headed south to the park. It was early, but she had a lot to do. Today, she'd really go all out. After a few minutes relaxing by the water, Isabel turned North and started creating her mental map of the area.

She started by going up Richards Street, noticing sushi bars and coffee houses, dry cleaners and ice-cream parlours, banks and homes, restaurants and cafés, clothes shops. She stopped at every one of those. It wasn't a busy hour just then, and, anyway, she kept her phone in her hand. Just in case.

The terrain was mostly flat and she kept going at a leisurely pace. About half an hour later, she turned right and then turned immediately south to follow Homer street down. Even though her heart beat harshly in her chest, Isabel kept the act of peace and quiet, head high and confident, not the slightest worry.

Isabel's objective was to have a clear picture of every street near the penthouse. That way, the area would be familiar and, hopefully, it would create less anxiety. Not to say that, the longer she spent outside and nothing bad happened, the sooner her stupid mind would realise there was no reason to freak out. Even if there were men around.

There was a second objective, of course: to get more skirts and dresses. And under skirts. The skirt she'd bought wasn't full enough to grant easy access, since it always had to be pulled up in its entirety. She wanted something flowy, something Victor could get a hand under and not be obvious from every angle. She had also learnt that, if she was going to wear skirts with no panties, she'd need something else underneath to protect the skirt from… fluids.

As the day progressed, Isabel started realising she might not be able to find what she was looking for. Sure, she'd bought a dress that more or less fit her demands, but cotton underskirts, or simply light-coloured cotton skirts, were nowhere to be seen. She was now going up Homer Street (as apparently there were two Homer Streets side by side), when she stumbled upon a fabric store.

Now why hadn't she thought about it before? Besides the obvious fact her sewing skills were very much underdeveloped. If she wanted cotton underskirts, she either had them made, or made them herself! How hard can it be to make a skirt, right? She had made one before, for craft classes at school. Sure, she had had plenty of help, but that was besides the point. She was very good at embroidery, and sewing isn't that very different. Though she wouldn't be sewing by hand. That'd take forever.

Looking at the fabrics on display on the window, Isabel tried to think it through.

Victor had left her a card with limited credit with the sole objective of buying essentials. She had no idea what the man thought those essentials might be, since the limited credit he'd so ominously underlined amounted to five thousand Canadian dollars. Had he been expecting a shopping spree? Or perhaps he was testing her, to see how much she'd spend. She was more inclined to go with the latter.

Right. She'd postpone getting a sewing machine till he came back and she exposed her plan to him. That would surely reasure whatever insecurities might hide behind the man's façade. In the meantime, she'd go online – the internet existed for a reason – and she'd look for instructions on how to make a skirt. Just to jog her memory.

Right. Looking through the window, she could see one female assistant and two male ones. Just the thing to keep on underlining how she had no reason to fear being around men.

Right.

Time to go in.

Right.

Taking a deep breath, Isabel entered the shop and headed straight to the first male attendant.

"Good morning," she said. "I want…"

Uh. How do you say white cotton in English?

"Yes?"

"Uh…" Isabel looked around, trying to spot… "Dat!"

She signalled the young man to follow her to the rolls of colourful fabric, which she immediately rubbed gently. It was cotton, alright. Grandma Lilia only wore cotton clothes in summer and Isabel would recognise that feel anywhere.

"I want dis, but in white, please."

"Yes, ma'am. How many meters?"

Oh, they used meters! She loved Vancouver.

"Ten, please."

She had no idea how many she really needed, but she'd have to make several of those underskirts, since she'd be changing them daily, if not a couple of times a day. She'd start with ten and figure it out how to...

Isabel cringed and bit down a whimper when she failed to get out of the way of the assistant and his hand brushed her arm. God, it made her skin crawl! But there was nothing wrong with it. Nothing wrong. She stepped away, careful not to go against anyone, to make sure there would be no more accidental touches.

Tomorrow, she predicted, she'd spend her day sewing. She'd need to have at least one underskirt ready for Victor's arrival and, for once, she wouldn't be bored to death stuck in the house.

"Anything else?"

Sewing material, obviously, from needles to scissors and everything in between. Now, if only she had a dictionary.

"Uh… Material to… uh… make clodes."

She really needed to learn some vocabulary, didn't she?

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	11. Vancouver: The Strengths and Weaknesses

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **11\. Vancouver: The Strengths and Weaknesses of Love**

It was almost midday when Creed got to the penthouse. It was a pity he couldn't relaxedly check on the woman from afar, the way he'd done in the woods. Sure he could get to Vancouver, get himself a vigilance position and check her movements, but that was too much of a hassle, especially as he was tired and hungry. The best he could do was standing by the door, senses working to the utmost. The woman was singing in Portuguese and cooking. Fish. It smelled good, though.

He opened the door carefully, to avoid making noise, and was immediately taken aback by the spectacle in the living room.

"What the hell's goin' on here?!"

"Victor!" She answered joyfully, shooting out of the kitchen, then she noticed his gaze and added. "I'm making skirts!"

There were pieces of white fabric spread over sofa and table, where a box of needles and sewing thread stood alongside the laptop he'd left for her use, hoping she'd be less inclined to go out.

"Is not so easy as I remembered but I think I got it now. But I really need a machine if I want be more fast and… look!"

She held a white full skirt in front of her, the hem of the thing falling just above her knees.

"Looks ok, right? De first two I made looked and _felt_ terrible, but dis is almost perfect. A bit more training and I start practice with out skirts."

"Out skirts?"

She nodded.

"Dis are skirts to use under the normal skirt. If I don't use panties, I need dis – a lot of dem – and I can't find dis in any shop so… I have to make dem."

Ah! It finally made sense.

"And d'ya really have t'turn the room into a pigsty?"

"I was working all morning, and I'm going to continue. If you told me you arrive today, I had cleaned up. Oh. I don't have lunch for you! You want eat out or… I have steak."

"Steak," he grumbled, heading to the bedroom and sprawling on the bed.

Behind him, Isabel hurried to the kitchen and, shortly afterwards, started cleaning up.

Damn, he felt tired! Creed had ended up taking a job at the last minute, just to have a bit of excitement after all the boring paperwork stuff, but it had gone so awry, the employer had ended up dead and Creed hadn't even seen any money for his pains. Which reminded him: he should set up a schedule for the deaths of the people involved in creating Isabel's documents. Three of them were very much aware they had used false information to create official documents, but Creed had to wait at least eight months before icing them, not to mention they couldn't all die in a row, and he didn't want to risk forgetting about them in the meantime.

"I'm interrupting?"

He glanced over to the door. Isabel was wearing the white skirt she'd shown him.

"What d'ya want?"

As if he didn't know. She had that hungry look shining in her eyes, even if she was trying to conceal it.

"You want dat I prepare a bath, or leave you alone, or…" The smirk grew into a coy grin. "You want help undress?"

That really was the greatest perk of having the woman around.

"Com'ere. I wanna test that so called underskirt."

She was on him instantly, unbuckling his belt as he groped her naked ass. He really had had a great idea, hadn't he?

"It failed the first test," he told her. "It's too long."

She laughed as he let go of her to get rid of his own jeans and boxers.

"Den dis one is only to go out and I mak…"

Huh? "It's what?"

Isabel looked surprised for a second, then that grin turned devilish.

"Imagine: we go somewhere, in de jeep, and is a long trip… nothing to do… and all you need is put a hand under my skirt." The teasing minx leaned over him, a hand going through his shirt, unbuttoning it. "Or maybe we make a stop and is no one around and you want eat something _special_."

She was something special alright. He rolled over, making her go down with a laughing shriek. She pulled the skirt up to her chest and clasped her legs around his waist.

"And to use in de house, I make more short skirts. But _after_ I buy a machine. By hand, dis takes forever! Okay?"

Sure, whatever.

"Buy all the damn machines ya want, woman. I don't know why ya ain't bought one yet."

She smiled happily.

"Second test now?"

* * *

The steak had ended up well-done and Isabel had had to make a second one. Now, Creed was relaxing on the sofa, watching a film on TV. Not that he was paying it much attention; he was almost dozing off.

Isabel was singing in whispers in the bedroom, making plans for the skirts.

He closed his eyes.

That day, when he'd said he wanted her accessible, he'd been… well, not exactly joking. Those jeans were an annoying obstacle. But he'd been thinking about her wearing skirts and no panties in the house, not outside. Still, why not outside? For as long as the skirt was long enough to not flash anyone! Just the thought of it made him long for a digestive.

"Hey, Nesi! Com'ere."

"Yes?"

He grinned at her as he unzipped his jeans.

"I really need to hurry wid de skirts, hun?"

"Hell, yeah."

He pulled the jeans down, thinking he might have to start lying about the house in his undies too. Constantly pulling jeans up and down got annoying fast.

"Gimme a blowjob first."

She smirked.

"Can I try something?"

"Fer as long as ya're doin' a good job, knock yerself out."

It didn't start well, as she ran away to the bedroom. Creed sat up until she ran back, wearing a dark blue mini-skirt. What was the woman planning?

"Hurry up," but she was already stradling him, though she kept her back to his face. "What's this?"

She lift her ass off his chest and grinned at him upside down.

"Blowjob wid a view?"

Nice view indeed.

"Ya call it the most suggestive stuff," he moaned as the woman got down to business.

Damn, this sure was living the good life! Her wet pussy was dancing teasingly ahead him, and he didn't resist. He reached up and bit it softly, causing the woman to choke in surprise on his dick. That felt good too, so he pulled her legs till her pussy was better positioned and he didn't have to strain his neck. It was a pity the woman was so short, as that meant there was no way this position could would allow for any deep throating, or anywhere near, but there's more to life than deep throating. Once the woman had regained her balance on the couch, she went back to sucking and he started licking her folds.

"Deus!" That was not what he was going for here. "You are distracting me."

"Shut up an' carry on, woman."

Her movements got a bit erratic, which wasn't the best outcome, but her moaning around his dick was new and very pleasant. He suckled on her clit till she came, her mouth vibrating nicely around his dick. Then he slapped her ass and pushed her forward so he could go back to thrusting deeper. Her pussy was still teasing him, though. Since it was out of reach, he just fingered her till she came again. This time, he got to thrust in way deep and really enjoy the vibrations of her throat as he came himself.

He slapped her ass.

"Ya got way too distracted, Nesi," he smirked as he leaned back on the sofa arm and closed his eyes, enjoying the scent coming from her pussy.

Then she tried to get off him and he quickly grabbed her leg to prevent it. Only, apparently, she was already too ahead on the movement and ended up sliding head first down the sofa and to the floor, her captive foot almost kicking him when he lifted his head.

"Where d'ya think ya're goin'? I ain't finished with ya yet."

"Ow!" She grumbled. "Dat is hurting. Let go!"

"Teach ya t'try an' leave," but he let go of her leg.

"I wasn't going away, you know. I was just going to sit in a different position."

Ah, well, in that case… Creed rested his head on the sofa arm again, once more closing his eyes sleepily, and patted his thigh.

"Get up here an' get rid o' that T-shirt. An' the bra too."

He cracked open an eye when she took too long to stradle him, but she was just taking her time putting both items of clothing folded on a chair.

Her fingers travelled down his chest and Creed gave in to the purr the motion conjured in his breast. Then her fingertips slid over his dick and, if he hadn't been so drowsy… A knee deformed the edge of the sofa, rubbing against his waist; then another knee squeezed between his body and the back of the sofa. Creed kept his eyes closed. Vision tended to diminish the intensity of his other senses, so he often enjoyed keeping his eyes closed, allowing his sense of smell and touch to have all the fun.

Nesi could give his dick a very solid and straightforward treatment, nothing exotic nor mind-blowing, but what he enjoyed the most was that teasing touch so unique to her. It was delicate and firm, surprisingly confident, her fingertips pressing here and sliding there, quickly and deftly. It reminded him of her movements when playing the piano, back in Wausau, masterful.

He lay lazily, allowing the woman to feel in control. Soon, she sat carefully down, making sure he entered her fully, and Creed finally opened his eyes, a hand caressing her thigh. Moving up and down, she smiled at him. She was wearing only the dark blue mini skirt and he chuckled.

"Ya needs a red one," he told her as he got over his laziness and started thrusting.

"Hun?"

"The skirt… ya need a red one."

"My favourite colour," she chuckled, letting her head fall backwards.

She supported herself on the back of the sofa with one arm as their rhythm increased and let the other travel across her breasts. He came before she did, but she simply moved her position slightly, rubbing to and fro till he was ready again. Soon, he was thrusting again and this time he made sure she came, even twice on top of it, though he had had to sat up and actually work for it to happen – the woman had long lost that uncanny sensitivity of the first time he'd fucked her, but she was still easy to play with. Anyway, now it was finally time for a well deserved nap so he closed his eyes and relaxed.

She kissed his chest.

"I made you go to sleep?" She chuckled in a whisper. "I'm so very boring to you."

"My kind o' boring."

"Den sleep, Victor. I go finish m…"

"No," and he quickly had his fingers in her hair, makind her lay down over him. "Ya're stayin' here."

She smelled so nice, her scent mixed with his and sex. So alluring and relaxing. Not to mention mysterious. He breathed in. There was an undertone to her scent that kept changing, slow and vague, and he couldn't figure out what it could be.

"Uh… Victor…"

"Shut up, already. I'm tryin' t'sleep." And decipher what was the matter with her scent.

" _I_ 'm not sleepy."

"Then watch TV."

He felt her trying to look towards the TV and eased his grip on her hair.

"Is about what, de film," she asked in a whisper.

"Some asshole soldier who gets all soft an' stupid over some chick he has t'protect."

"Ah! One of those," she grumbled in Portuguese.

"What? Thought ya liked love stories. Ain't ya all 'bout _fizzy_ feelings?"

He felt the groan rumbling in her chest.

"Dis is not a love story. Real love doesn't make people act stupid."

He chuckled at that.

"Don't say! So what type o' love does that, huh?"

"Uh… I don't know how to say in English but is basically… uh… think wid your dick and your pussy."

That had him laughing.

"Yeah, thinkin' with yer dick will definitely have ya messin' up. But he ain't jus' tryin' t' bed her. From what I saw, they's gonna end up gettin' married an' livin' happily ever after. It's _that_ kind o' make-feel-good blockbuster."

Isabel laid her face on his chest and he started rolling a strand of hair around his fingers.

"Dat is because people who write dis films are stupid. Real love makes you careful; hot dicks makes you do evertyhing fast, not careful, and mess up. Real love makes you strong; hot pussies make you blind and stupid."

"I have no idea what ya're talkin' 'bout girl. Fuzzy feelings don't make anyone strong, whether it's real love or not, they make 'em weak. It gives yer enemies an openin' to attack ya. Ya can't do what ya hav'to 'cause it can cause harm t' folks ya don't want harmed."

Real love, fake love or just antsy dicks, it all boiled down to the same. When shove came to push and you had to make a difficult choice, those feelings would slow you down or flat out stop you from doing what had to be done. Like Native! Logan's fuzzy feelings for her, because not even Logan would have said he loved Native, but his fuzzy feelings for her wouldn't have let him kill her even when he knew she had to die. Creed, on the other hand, had had no problem killin' off Bonnie. Why? Because he had no special feelings for weakling female humans and he didn't let his dick control his actions either. Sure, she had been basically dead already, and killing her had hurt like all hell, but…

"It traps ya."

She was silent for a while then she took a deep breath.

"I understand what you are saying. Liabilities, right?" He nodded. "But love also gives streng. Is a love more strong dan a moder for her son? Or a fader."

Creed shook his head.

"That's different, Nesi. That's maternal instinct. Even the most weakling prey will face up to a predator to protect its young. They'll fail, most o' the time, but they'll do it."

"You can call it maternal instinct; I call it love. Is still de same thing. A fader will face his worst demons for his sons. Or he's a complete coward."

"I ain't gonna say nuthin' 'gainst that. Kids are big liabilities, the worst of 'em all, but if ya have parent instincts, they will give ya the strength t'defend 'em 'gainst anythin'. If ya succeed or fail, that's another story. But I ain't talkin' 'bout that. I'm talkin' 'bout couples."

"Real love…" she sighed. "Real love makes you act de same. Because, when you really love, is not just sex. Is… you can't imagine life widout de person you love. Life is boring, monotonous. Live widout de person you love is… be a zombie. You are dead inside but continue to make de basic actions of be alive."

"Don't be melodramatic, Nesi."

"Is true," she said in a whisper.

He didn't answer. If she wanted to hold on to romatic stupidities…

"My grandmoder Lilia. Her husband died and life became a task. She never laughed again, she rarely smiled. Was only pain and lost inside her. Waiting do die and be wid him again."

Ah! That's why she'd sworn off love. Guess it hadn't done her much good, if she really was in love with him now.

"But when you love someone you have de streng to do things dat normally you don't do. You have de streng to face your fears and demons, if dat is de only way to protect who you love. You have de streng to never give up because… what happens to de people you love if you give up? You can't! Love gives you streng to fight, and fight, and fight. Even when you are tired and can't continue, you still fight and continue. Fight and continue forever."

Hey, that gave him an idea!

"Ya really think love gives people the strength t' face their fears? _Any_ fears?"

The woman held her breath for a moment, trying to spot the trap. He almost chuckled.

"Prove it! Ya says ya loves me, so face yer fears fer my sake an' learn ta swim."

He felt her head leave his chest and opened his eyes to meet her gaze. It was so solemn! Then there was a smirk and an aloof shake of her head.

"I don't love you _dat_ much."

He laughed.

"But tell you something: if I ever need to swim to help you, because you're in trouble, you can be certain dat I jump in de water and I swim to help you."

He sneered.

"As if that would ever happen!"

Isabel lay her face on his chest again, softly, and he rolled a new strand of hair around his finger.

"Maybe. But if I see you in danger, I do _anything_ to help you because… what I feel for you… Water or fire, I jump in to help you."

Silly dumbass.

"Love opens a… an opening in your defenses," she added. "But gives you de streng to protect dem."

Creed doubted that supposed strength was enough to make up for the cracked defenses.

"Shush, Nesi. I'm tryin' t' sleep, remember? An' those dumb ideas of yers ain't helpin'."

She made herself more comfortable over him as Creed relaxed.

Ah, now this really was living the good life! Why the hell hadn't he gotten himself a woman earlier?

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	12. Vancouver: Return to training

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **12\. Vancouver: Return to training**

It was raining and Creed was bored inside the house. He'd gone out early, pretty much at break of dawn, for a run and had come back dripping water. Which hadn't really bothered him: he'd had the parks and much of the pavements all for himself, as most people avoided strolling in the rain. But it wasn't the same, was it, running in a city. He was considering taking a short trip to somewhere less peopled when Isabel started the sewing machine.

Damn, he hated that noise! He tried to focus on his own task, comparing small towns in Southern BC to choose the perfect one to stash the woman in, but it was no use. And he really should focus on it. Isabel's documents were all done, after all. Well, the Canadian ones. His middle man in Portugal was still years from finishing his part of the bargain.

"Hey, will ya knock that out! I'm tryin' t'focus here."

"Sorry. I do dis later."

Good. But then the woman went to the kitchen and started banging on the cooking pots. This living in close proximity was not going to work out. At all.

"Ain't ya got nuthin' better t'do?"

"Hun? You said something?"

She came out of the kitchen and Creed decided he'd have to give her a task that would keep her silently away from him.

"Have ya memorised yer new information yet? Ya have t'know it all without hesitations."

The woman put a peevish fist against her hip but then simply breathed out.

"Ok. All fine. I go memorise."

Finally! Some peace and quiet for him to focus. As she flopped onto the couch, though, she asked him when he was going to have another job.

"Why? Ya're dyin' t'see me gone, are ya?"

"I think you said you had a job but I don't remember when you said dat was. I want to prepare de menus to de next days so I need to know if you are here or not."

"I'm leavin' on Thursday."

Which gave him two days to choose a couple of towns. Once the mark was snuffed, he could stop by the places on his way back to Vancouver and get a feel for what they were like.

"Can I know how many days? Dat way I can prepare a banquet to your return."

"I'll call ya the day before," he grunted. Welcome banquets were always nice. "Now will ya zip it fer good an' lemme work?"

He was focusing his search on the Kootenays area. He figured a lake would help the weather be less harsh, but he would still be close enough to mountains and wide forested regions. Castlegar, Nelson, Balfour, Wynndel, Nakusp, Slocan, Kaslo… Obviously he wasn't thinking about settling down in those towns themselves, but he'd find a house near enough. That way, the woman could easily go shopping for food and whatnot. In fact, he should probably invest in acquiring a wide property so he could control how close any neighbours would ever get. He immediately looked it up.

There were some very nice off the grid lots in the Ferguson area, including several adjacent ones. Of course, the ideal would be to buy several adjacent lots, making sure that at least one wasn't off the grid. That way, he could have Isabel tucked away on that one and then add a cabin in the most remote area of the property. Nelson and Galena weren't that bad either. Oh, nice! Lakefront lot in Arrow Lake. Wilgress Lake was even better: lakefront, no zoning hunting and fishing areas, and two rustic cabins already included. He added Ferguson, Galena, Arrow Lake and Wilgress Lake to the list, circling the last one, and growled lightly. The list kept getting longer, rather than shorter. This was going to take forever!

Maybe he should have a break to clear his head. Maybe he should also leave the map alone and focus on what type of requirements this property would need. A loud, exasperated sigh got his attention and he looked back. Isabel was laying sulkingly on the couch, no sign of any documents nearby. How was she supposed to be memorising the data if she wouldn't even look at it?

"What's yer full name?"

She pushed herself up on the sofa and shot him a sulky glare. It occurred to him she should be able to sit up with no need of pushing herself up with her arms. He got up and got closer.

"Isabel de Fátima Silva," she droned out. "Daughter of Maria João de Fátima and Gabriel Nunes Silva. Born in 4 of November of…"

Isabel frowned as he reached her hand and then pushed her back onto the sofa.

"Hey," she glared. "Wha…"

"Shut up an' sit up."

Once more, she planted her hands on the sofa.

"Stop it!" Which got him a surprised 'what the hell' frown. "Ain't ya got abs? Use 'em!"

"Abs?"

"Yeah, these muscles right here." He pointed at his own abs. "Abdominal muscles. Now sit up an' _don't_ use yer hands ta push yerself up."

It took her a moment to try, but then she got momento and pulled herself up. Victor pushed her back immediately.

"No cheatin', woman. Let yer muscles do the work. Again."

The woman sighed and made a huge effort until she managed to sit up. Creed grinned.

"Get off the couch, Nesi. It's high time I get yer ass trainin' again." And as she gave him a silent groaning grimace, he couldn't help a laugh. "First, some abs an' push ups, _then_..."

He left the idea dangling for greater effect. However, the woman got the jump on him:

"Shooting and knife throwing?"

There was calculated hope on her features and Creed grinned wider.

"Yeah, that too," because it was indeed a good idea. "But I was thinkin' more in the lines o' self-defense."

"Punch bag?"

"No, ferget that." Though she definitely needed to practise her punches. "I mean real self-defense. Remember back in Wausau when I pretended t'be a thug attackin' ya and ya had t'break free? Somethin' like that, but this time I'll give ya pointers an' specific techniques or ya'll never pick up anythin'."

Isabel groaned and flopped back onto the couch.

"I think I don't have time," she whined not even pretending not to be lying. "I didn't memorise nothing so I have to…"

"Quit yer whinin', Nesi!" He grabbed her arm and pulled her up. "Break free."

She simply pouted and went for the most ineffective puppy eyes he'd ever witnessed. Not that he'd witnessed that many, but Ruth's girls were pros at it, especially when he told them to get out and they wanted another romp.

"Or I can throw ya in the river an' see if ya'll pick up how ta swim."

"Ok, ok, _fine_!"

Isabel grabbed his wrist and took her time, looking thoughtfully at it, before trying to yank it against Creed's thumb. He wasn't holding her arm too securely, so she managed to break free at the second attempt.

"Again," he said, grabbing her left arm this time. "Let's see if ya can do it in under a minute, shall we? 'Cause, guess what, this move ain't gonna be effective if it ain't done in under a second."

Isabel frowned seriously this time.

"I don't know why you want lose time and patience wid dis. I'm never going to be good enough to defend me. Especially not from people like… like… professionals."

"Obviously," he conceded. "But knowin' some o'this will at least give ya a fightin' chance if ya ever get the opportunity. Now break free. The faster ya get the hang of it, the faster ya'll get off the hook."

She chewed on her lip and gazed up mischievously.

"If I can run away from you to de kitchen, is no more train today and tomorrow."

Nice try. "No more trainin' _today_."

"But you have to be nice. If you play dis serious, I never have a chance."

If that's what it took to motivate her efforts. It wasn't as if he wasn't going to make her work hard for it. In fact, he'd go easy on purpose to give her the illusion of easy success and then he'd thwart all her efforts. At least until he decided she'd learnt something.

"Sure."

Isabel moved quickly, her arm twisting against his thumb while she lunged off the couch. She broke off his grip – lax grip, remember – easily and fell on her knees. Like a sprinter, she pushed herself onward and towards the kitchen. Creed was not to be beaten that easily though. He hit her over the shoulder, causing her to fall sideways onto the couch before she could sprint off, then he got her into a choke hold, effectively pinning her against his body.

"Nice try, frail." Besides the arm tightening around her neck, Creed snaked the other one over her waist." Now what are ya gonna… uh…"

She started shivering, fear skyrocketing. Creed let go of her immediately. When she turned to face him, her face was livid. Fuck, he thought they were past all this!

"I'm fine," she hissed. "We can continue just _fine_."

"Ya escaped my grip on yer arm perfectly," he said. "Real fast. Figured that should cut ya some slack."

Isabel sniffed stiffly, eyes swimming in tears. He was so not in the mood for this.

"No! I didn't get to de kitchen. We have a deal."

"I fergot t'take it easy on that second move o'mine."

Tears started spilling. Fuck it all to hell!

"I am NOT a frail!" She yelled. "I said to you: I am FINE and I AM fine!"

Well, if she was going to be a prick when he was being nice and easy… He grabbed her by the neck.

"Have it yer way. How're ya gonna get away now?"

Trying to sniff the tears back, the woman slapped his arm.

" _I don't know_! You have to show me first!"

Seriously? She couldn't think of anything to do?

"How's about ya try the obvious? Either kick or knee me in the groin. Or try ta gouge my eyes out. But do it seriously; none o' that stupid clawin'. Use yer index an' middle finger an' really jab 'em in. Or hit me on the throat, right here. See? Weak spot. Hit it hard enough, and ya can KO even me."

The tears had stopped running and the woman seemed to be pulling herself together. However, she still didn't try to do anything against him.

"Your arms are too long, I can't… what's de word… I can't hit you where you said."

"Ya can reach my groin just fine with yer legs. What're ya waitin' fer?"

She breathed out, brow furrowed in frustration. Then she threw a botched kick and Creed deflected her leg. As if he would actually let her kick him there, especially that clumsily. She glared reprovingly at him and slapped his arm sharply.

"What! I said ya had ta give it yer all. Make an effort! I ain't cuttin' ya no slack otherwise."

But she obviously didn't want to make a real effort. She wanted to be held and comforted. Why the hell hadn't she taken the reprieve he'd given her? Sure, he might have gone back to the self-defense exercises eventually, which the woman clearly didn't want to deal with later on, but he'd have let her get over the drama first.

The woman looked sideways with a half-sulky, half-peeved pout. Then the pout morphed into a stubborn frown and she looked at him.

"I don't want kick your groin," she said, her voice finally on its way to sounding normal. "I want… uh… wait, let me think de word…"

Creed growled. If she had pushed him into keeping up with this stupid attack simulation, she had better not think he'd let her off the hook because she didn't feel like it after all. It didn't matter how much she wanted out. She hadn't taken the opportunity to walk away when she could have, now she was stuck with it.

"I don't want kick your cock," she resumed, "I want eat it."

Uh, what?

The woman let out a weak chuckle and smirked, embarrassed.

"Please?"

Creed relaxed his grip, and Isabel got closer, her hands reaching for his belt. Well, it was a fair trade, drama-filled training for relaxing sex. He let go of her neck to undo his zipper and the woman sprinted. What the… !

"I'm in de kitchen!" She called out from the doorframe. "No more train today."

Creed snarled. The fucking lying back-stabbing…

"I'm sorry, but I really don't want more train, today, and you said only if I get to de kitchen and I can't escape you when you grab me like dat so…" She raised her shoulders in an apologetic way. "But now dat I am in de kitchen, you can come after me and you can fuck me in de kitchen table? We never had sex in de kitchen before."

He was still not happy. Even as she started peeling off her shirt and bra. He glowered after her.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "Was de only thing I could think to escape."

He grabbed her by the chin and she gave herself to him, fearless and unresisting, even if her eyes were pleading for him to hold her.

"Don't ya _ever_ try t'trick me again, got it?"

"I promise," she said softly, trying to smile charmingly but failing. "I don't trick again. Promise."

He growled, still pissed, but what was he to do? Her heartbeat was faster than normal and her scent had the undertone of anxiety typical of a bad night. Why had she flipped over that accursed choke hold? She'd been perfectly fine in the last days. Isabel touched his wrist.

"Please, let me compensate."

But she didn't want to make up for anything. What she wanted was for him to kiss her and fuck her nice and fast. To make the world go away, as she so often said. Hold her tight and promise she was safe. If she hadn't had that near breakdown a moment ago, he might have punished her by forcing her into a full hour of practising self-defense moves, and he'd make sure it was an hour of pure hell, too. Maybe two hours. But she was not in any state for him to force her into anything. Besides, the woman had rebounded quick enough from the near collapse and it made no sense to risk another one. Since she was offering to make ammends, though, he wouldn't have to give in and let her off the hook that easily.

"Then get on yer knees an' start compensatin'."

She forced an attempt at a sweet smile and obeyed.

He had something nasty on the tip of his tongue, ready to be spit out, but held it back. She leaned her head lightly on his thigh as she knelt on the floor tiles, tiredly, and Creed growled at himself. She was making believe she was fine. Making believe she wasn't a frail. Making believe she didn't want him to hold her tight and promise her she was safe. She never did ask him to do so, no matter what. She even told him to let go of her, even as she shivered in his arms. She disguised it with horniness, rather than accept her weakness. The fact she was anything but turned on right now, even as she offered willing sex, underlined how much this last hitch in her recovery had upset her.

Isabel reached for his zipper but Creed slapped her hand off, confusing her, then he crouched and cupped her face, softly.

"I'm fine, Victor," She protested immediately. "I pr…"

"Shush, woman!"

She closed her mouth in a tight line and held back tears of frustration. He couldn't picture her crying out of sorry for herself or stupid sadness or anything like that, so those tears must simply be frustration over the setback.

"Ya knows ya're safe with me. Trainin'… that'll make ya feel – an' _be_ – safer when I ain't around. Ya know that, right?"

Her face said everything.

"But I'm so sorry, Victor! Serious! I don't know why I reacted like dat, I promise I'm fine, I'm…"

"Shush, Nesi. Enough o'that. I know ya're fine. A strong woman such as yerself? Hell, ya put most human women t'shame. Not ta mention a few super-powered ones, too. Bein' tortured like ya was, by a telepath no less? There's people who'd never rebound, ya know? An' look at you! Ya're practically as good as new, ain't ya?"

Isabel nodded, clearly not buying it, even if he believed what he said: it took a strong character to get over torture and Isabel… Two months was nothing after what she had been through. Being raped, skinned alive, dissected… the telepath stretching out her notion of time till two weeks had felt like a lifetime… And the woman had been a middle-class chick who'd never faced real violence before, too. Hell, there were grown men who preferred to erase and forget bad memories rather than facing them, and he wasn't thinking only about the runt.

"I mean it, Inês," he growled. Using her real name usually made her feel better, hopefully it would shoehorn the fact he wasn't lying into that stubborn skull. "If I didn't think ya was strong enough t'get over all that shit, I would have broken yer neck an' cut down my losses."

That had an impact, though not exactly what he had expected as the woman paled slightly.

"Listen: ya had a bit of a setback. So what? Ya had one when we got t'Vancouver, too, remember? It just means ya're tacklin' yer triggers one by one an' gettin' over 'em, right?"

Isabel frowned then nodded slowly, distrustfully. She really was too smart for her own good.

"Trainin' self-defense will make ya even stronger. Ya just hav'ta go through it like ya tackled the city: face it every single day till all the ghosts an' dumb fears are gone."

Isabel held her breath for a moment then breathed out cautiously, a bit apprehensive.

"I didn't go out every day," she said. Truthfully, if his nose was working right. "And… you didn't want dat I go out."

There! Even when she was at her weakest, she could still spot his maneuvers and react to avoid them. Always smart when she shouldn't.

"No, but it still worked, didn't it? So, we can simply adapt that lesson an' use it fer yer trainin'. Ya do wanna get strong, don't ya?"

Isabel hesitated before nodding once.

"Den I practise wid you day yes, day no. Dat is de lesson I learned, when I… when I faced my fear of be outside, wid people."

"Sure. Self-defense every other day, but physical trainin', and I mean runnin', doin' push ups an' pull ups, usin' the punch bag, the works! Physical trainin' happens every damn single day. And ya really gotta make an effort."

Her nod was vigorous this time.

"Promise."

She held her breath, though.

"What? Spill it out."

"We don't train… _dat_ , please. Quer dizer, now, in de beginning. First I learn more things and den… after I learn _a lot_ more things, den we can train de… what you did. Ok?"

"Choke hold," he said. "It's called choke hold. Fine. I'll let ya get yer bearings first, 'fore we go back t' choke holds."

No problem with that request. He really didn't want her going back on all the progress. If avoiding some stuff was what he had to do… or if making sure he always kept it nice and easy, then so be it. The woman had no confidence on her physical strength and prowess, after all. What she needed, first of all, was to become confident. Then he could throw a few challenges her way. There was time.

"Now can we inaugurate de kitchen?"

At least setbacks in her recovery didn't impact her sex drive. Even if she wasn't really horny, since asking for sex was simply a way to be held tight without looking weak.

"I'd say it's about time we get down to it."

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If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	13. Vancouver: Songs and Threats

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

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Early update because tomorrow will probably be too hectic and I may not have the chance to get online.

Enjoy the Holiday Season, if that's your case. If it isn't, enjoy the week all the same.

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 **13\. Vancouver: Songs and Threats**

It was not yet ten in the morning when Isabel sat down at her new synthesizer. She had hurried through her morning routine of physical training, as Victor demanded, while listening to Sinatra's New York as motivation to be extra fast. Granted, she hadn't put that much effort into the exercise, but Victor had gone out early for a workout, supposedly, and hadn't been around to pester her. It wasn't that she didn't recognise some importance to exercising, but abs and push ups were mostly foreplay before Victor's main dish, self-defense, which he had ended up pushing into happening every single day, despite what he'd said. Again, she might recognise the usefulness of knowing self-defense, but she was also very much aware she would never learn anything that she could successfully use in real life. Especially not at Victor's level, and she still believed any danger that might ever come her away would be connected to the man's lifestyle. It was like learning to use a pistol to defend herself against a missile. What was the point?

Since Victor was still out of the house when she finished the exercises, she took the chance to start playing. The synthesizer had arrived the day before and she had mostly fooled around, which Victor had actually enjoyed, even if he had refused to acknowledge it. But he wouldn't have laid on the sofa for over three hours, occasionally nodding his head to the rhythm of a more spirited song. He had liked it. Today, though, it was time she started learning a song for him. With a bit of luck, he'd forget about the self-defense bit when he got back.

Getting out music paper, Isabel got the tablet playing Sinatra's song and focused on transposing the brass instruments. The melody in itself was not difficult, but she wanted to capture the flashy fanfare of the original. It would be easy to fool around with the synthesizer buttons and choose the sound of brass instruments, but she wasn't in the mood for going through the instructions, especially in English. She much preferred the familiar sound of a piano, anyway.

Isabel quickly got engrossed in the task of trying out several arrangements, bit by bit, and of noting her favourite ones down for future reference.

"Boo."

Isabel's heart stopped and she gasped, before glaring at the man. She had always hated being startled in this type of joke. Especially when she was focused. Victor laughed. Why wouldn't he?

"Ya're so easy ta scare!"

And you are a stupid, childish ass, she kept for herself as she breathed out angrily. It was also better not to tell him how much she hated it; it would simply encourage him to do it more often. How had he entered the house so quietly, anyway?

"I am trying to work in your music."

"Yeah, I heard it outside." He sat on the sofa and took off his trainers. "But ya did go through the routine I set ya, right?"

"Yes, of course!" And before he could mention self-defense: "You like de effect?"

He shrugged and took the trainers to the bedroom.

"I thought ya was gonna use the special effects o' the synthesizer. Ya know, the pre-set drums an' the sound o' the right instruments."

"No, I need to know de sound of instrument very well," she told him. "Piano and guitar are my specialties."

"What d'ya mean?"

He came back, peeling off his sweaty T-shirt. It made her stomach tighten with a thrill. She shook her head and looked at the scribbled music sheets.

"I hear de music and I study de melody, den I…" She glanced back to see him leaning on the wall and listening attentively, almost curiously. "I know all de sounds I can take from de piano, so I just choose de best ones. You want to see an example?"

He shrugged but came closer. She took the tablet and gave it to him.

"Choose a song dat I don't know and I show you."

Victor sat down on the couch, typing something, then a piano melody started playing.

"Yiruma," she said, starting to play over the sound of the tablet. "I love his musics. Dis is River Flows, one of my favourites."

But then she lept off the seat and bounced to his side.

"Choose something dat isn't only piano," she said. "Dat is too easy to transpose and is not fun. I help."

"I have no idea which songs ya know an' don't know," he grumbled, letting go of the tablet.

"Think out loud of Ed Sheran," she said, giving him de tablet back. "I know de music but I never tried to play it."

"It's Sheeran, not Sheran."

Isabel ignored the correction and told him she would play the melody with her left hand and the voice with her right hand.

"Can you please start?"

Isabel focused on the melody underneath it, looking at the synthesizer and hovering her hand over it, looking for the keys which would have the best sound to match the original. Once the song got to the chorus, she told Victor to restart. She had a better notion of which keys she'd need and essayed the movement with her fingers.

"Again from the top, please, but put de sound more down, ok?"

She started actually playing at the same time as the song, hissing to herself when she realised she'd chosen a couple of keys wrongly.

"Ok. Stop de music…"

She played the melody all the way to the chorus and looked back. He was gazing intently at her and she felt happiness fill her. She had expected him to look bored or restless.

"Dat was de melody. Now we add de voice. Play two more times, ok?"

He neither said ok nor nodded. Instead, he played the song from the top. The fact that Isabel didn't easily understand all of the lyrics meant she had no problem ignoring the meaningful words and letting her fingers flow to the melody of the singer's voice. After the second round, she felt confident she had it.

"Hour of de audition!"

"Uh… what?"

"I mean, stop de music, please."

Isabel took a deep breath and ignored him so she could fully focus. As she played, she was aware she missed a couple of notes but, for such a fast practice, it was not bad at all. She turned around victoriously.

"And is like dat! Easy, right?"

"It was faster than I thought it'd be," Creed shrugged and started fooling around with the tablet. "I don't really like the song, but I guess it ain't that bad when ya cut the lyrics out the way ya did."

Isabel held back a laugh of pleasure. He really had liked it!

"I don't get why yer teacher gave ya a hard time fer playin' by ear rather than readin'. Seems like it's very practical."

Isabel held her breath. He actually remembered that conversation back in Albany?

"Ah, is… you need a lot of practice to read music. I mean, to read well and fast. If you always play by ear, you don't develop dat."

"And have ya?"

"Of course! My teacher didn't give me a chance."

Isabel got some music paper and started taking notes.

"When I adapt a song to piano, or guitar, I always write my version," she explained. "Is not simply hear one note and find dat in de piano. Many times, you have to really change things because or you have many instruments dat have to be reduced to de piano only, or you have instruments wid very different sounds and you have to find something dat has de same spirit. Some musics are really difficult, especially when dey are complex."

"Like Sinatra's New York?"

Isabel didn't answer immediately since she was recalling what she had played. She didn't even notice Victor getting nearer till he was basically breathing down her neck.

"Ya're damn fast at that."

She smiled like a silly little girl at the compliment.

"Is just like writing in Portuguese," she dismissed.

"Or in English."

She giggled. "English is _very_ much more difficult."

She noticed him looking at her previous notes. He picked one of the sheets.

"Ya've finished Sinatra?"

"De melody, yes, almost. Are some parts dat I'm not happy because of how the sound of de brass instruments is transposed but is basically done. Next I start wid de letters." She smirked at him. "Lyrics. See? I remember your corrections."

He chuckled mockingly at that and she almost giggled like a stupid teenager. Instead, she asked him if he wanted to help her with memorising the lyrics.

"Sure. After self-defense."

Isabel slumped. She had thought she was off that hook.

"Fine," she groaned, thinking about something to at least delay the torture. "But first tell me what you want for lunch tomorr…"

"Whatever! Why're ya always askin' me what I want?"

For no good reason, she felt her temper flare and didn't even think twice.

"Because you _never_ say what dishes you like or don't like, and you _never_ say what you prefer. I know you prefer meat in relation to fish, but you eat widout a bad word or even a bad face when I make fish too. I never know! And if you start to say 'whatever' or dat you don't want dat I ask you, den is best if you don't complain when you don't like my choice!"

"I've told ya before, woman!" He snarled, and Isabel was vaguely aware her reaction was not healthy. She should be getting into a cautious stance, not feeling antsy to further poke the man. "Do not threaten me!"

Don't go head to head, she told herself, despite what she felt like. So she breathed out and held her tongue for a second till a civilised answer came to her.

"I'm sorry," she ended up forcing as sweetly as she managed.

Very poorly managed, though, which had the man snarling. Isabel breathed out and forgot fake niceties.

"I'm serious. I think I don't understand English."

The snarl subsided. Yes, it really was best to keep herself natural.

"Really?" He sneered, which further pissed her. "What was yer first clue?"

Don't bite the bait, she warned herself.

"What I mean is: I think I don't understand de word, threat. Explain me, please, when I say 'if you touch fire, you burn'. Dat is a threat?"

Victor frowned. He might not like when she beat about the bush, but at least the unexpected circling managed to cool him some.

"Ya _get_ burnt," he corrected. "And no, it ain't a threat. It's obvious."

"Obvious like… uh… a fact? Natural consequence?"

"Yeah," he growled, getting up. "It ain't rocket science! What are ya gettin' at?"

"Ok, wait, and if I say… uh…" She thought fast for the best comparison. "If you never say hello and good morning to people, they won't talk wid you".

"Where the hell are ya goin' wi' this?"

Better quit circling and get to the point now.

"Is de same! If you never tell me what food you like, I can't guess and den if you don't like something and you complain… dat is not fair, because I ask first and you are de one who don't want to say nothing so den de natural consequence is dat I don't want know if you like or not! And dat is not a threat, is a obvious, a fact and a natural consequence!"

He lifted an eyebrow.

"And ya're demented."

Was that his answer to all her explanations of how logical common sense behaviour worked?

"You know, if dat makes you happy, call me dement all you want. I don't want know. You still want whatever?"

"It's 'I don't care'," he grumbled, and Isabel barely repressed the roll of the eyes that wanted to accompany the 'isso'. "And I don't hav'ta be the one choosin' the menu every freakin' meal. _You_ 're the cook, _you_ decide!"

Oh, was that so? Then he really better never complain.

"OK, fine. Den tomorrow we have snails and beer for de entry and den is tripe of cow. I found it in de market some days ago and I'm dying to try it."

"Snails and tripe?" He growled. "Are ya fuckin' kiddin' me?"

She got up and put a fist on her hip.

"For your informantion, I _love_ snail and tripe, and I have it in de kitchen waiting for de day when I finally can eat again. And I was going to ask if you want snail and tripe, salmon in de grill, or pork wid clams. You said I choose, well you have my choice: live wid dat. Besides, I don't know if you like snails, but tripe is marvelous, and I'm certain you will _love_."

"Sirloins. I want sirloins fer tomorrow. And I do not appreciate covert threats, either, so ya better not try this again."

"Is NOT a threat!" He snarled a warning and Isabel felt the urge to push him. She could almost feel his hands grabbing her wrists hard and pulling her to him, for a passionate kiss. Get a grip! "I am going to do for me all de same. If you like de smell you can try."

"Watch yer tongue and yer temper, woman." He growled. "Don't provoke me wi' no more covert threats, got it?"

He turned his back on Isabel, heading to the kitchen, apparently, and Isabel seethed inside. She was still fantasising with him grabbing her and... Standing between him and the bedroom door, she grabbed a random cushion from the couch and threw it at his head.

"What the fuck…"

He looked back with a frown, more confused than angry, and Isabel gave herself a certificate of madness. Because she had to be mad.

"If I get to de bed, is no self-defense today _and_ you try my snails."

Surprise erased the frown off his face.

"Ya just gave me a hell of motivation t'not go easy on ya."

Oops. Good thing she had the advantage, being closer to the bedroom than he was. She sprinted towards safety, laughing inwardly with the thrill of the chase, but as she went through the door frame, a screeching pain seared through her scalp and she fell sideways, hitting her forehead against the chest of drawers.

"Shit," she heard him say as she took her hand to her forehead, her vision blurry.

"Well, it's your fault I didn't go easy on ya. Lemme see."

There was blood on her hand, she realised, but she didn't get to dwell on the sight as he grabbed her chin and turned her face to the side.

"It don't look too bad, but ya better wash it an' put some ice on it."

Still dazed, Isabel didn't say anything as he helped her to her feet. She wobbled into the bathroom but felt steadier as she washed the wound.

"I'll go get some ice."

Alone in the bathroom, Isabel analysed the gash on her forehead, just above her eyebrow. It was neither deep nor long. She'd had much worse.

"Here."

Isabel grimaced a grin at him and accepted the ice bag wrapped in a kitchen towel.

"How you say cicatriz in English?"

"Huh? I doubt _that_ is gonna leave a scar."

Isabel laughed and put the ice on the forehead. The wounded area was hot and still a bit numb, but the cold bite felt nice.

"I wanted to say dat is not going to leave a scar to additionate to my list."

"What list?" He asked as he lead her to the bed. "Sit down. Are ya feelin' dizzy or sick?"

"No," she shook her head. "I have a list of all my scars."

"D'ya remember how ya fell?"

Isabell rolled her eyes.

"I can't remember what I don't know. I was running very well and den… uh... did you push my hair? I felt a pain in my head and den I lost equilibrium."

"No, I didn't push nuthin'. I just grabbed yer hair and ya fell over."

Isabel smirked, unamused. Because, obviously, grabbing someone's hair when they're running isn't supposed to have any bad consequences.

"Why d'ya have a list o' scars? It ain't like ya have that many."

Isabel shrugged.

"I collected them along de years. Look: see dis on the elbow?"

"I think I'm gonna need a magnifyin' lense ta see it, and I got good vision."

She laughed.

"Yes, is going to disappear soon. But was my first. I fell from a horse when I was five. My mum went ballistic! I actually remember de scene. I remember as clear as today dat I only started crying when she told my grandfader dat I was never going to be on a horse again."

He didn't seem impressed so then she pulled her sweater up and showed him her nave.

"Appendicitis?"

She shook her head at the guess.

"Bicycle widout brakes. I was nine. All de kids in de neighbourhood took turns riding it down a steep street. De one dat rode more times widout falling won."

"Guess ya lost, huh?"

"Wrong! I fell, but I continued ride de bike until everyone fell too, and got hurt, and didn't want ride again. I won by resistance."

He laughed and Isabel beamed at the sound.

"Ya won by sheer stubbornness, is more like it. Yer Ma went ballistic again, didn't she? Did she forbid ya from ridin' bikes again?"

"In truth, I didn't tell her. I cleaned de wound and put… uh…" Bandage, he offered, and she went with it. "I think dat is why I have de scar. Should have had… uh…"

"Stitches."

"Isso. And dis…" She showed him the thin line that circled over half her right lower shin. "Is from a… a knife to cut grass and cereal? Before you have machines in agriculture."

"Ya mean a sickle?"

"A big one. I stole it from de shed of my grandfader to play. I was ten and I almost cut my foot out. Blood everywhere! You have no idea. I tried to hide, but blood continued to come out so… Mum went ballistic. But she was always ballistic wid me, I was used."

"I bet! Ya really have a death wish."

Isabel wasn't sure what he meant with that, but she guessed he might be more impressed by less childish adventures. She definitely had deadlier sounding ones. She lifted her skirt and showed him a line on the back of her thigh, then she showed him the one on her left buttock, and the one on her back, at the waist line.

"Dis three are de worse wounds when I was playing wid de bulls. I was thirteen and I didn't really know de techniques. Because you have to know. You have to study de speed of de animal, and you have to know how fast you can move, because de objective is to run in front of de bull, touch his head and escape widout you be caught. Looks very easy but is not. I saw de guys do it, but dey were in a school for bullfighting. Dat summer, I learned my lesson and I started study de techniques. I never study nothing wid so much intensity."

It thrilled her to no end the way Victor gave her, and her story, all of his attention.

"Didn't yer Ma ground you or anything?" Isabel frowned. "Didn't she stop you from going to the bulls?"

Ah!

"As if was possible!" she laughed. "We had terrible fights every summer because of dat, but I always went. She couldn't lock me inside de house. When I was fourteen, I cut my arm here, see the scar? I walked to de bull, real slow, and put my hand on his head. Was real slow, had to be. De bull was tired and he let me. But den he… mm… you can say he had his revenge. Broke my arm, too, and cracked two ribs. Dat was really bad, but I waited until de bulls were taken away before I went to hospital. Wasn't long, because I was smart: I waited for de end to do dis so de animals were tired. I didn't want de oders, de guys dat went to de bullfighting school, I didn't want dat dey laugh at me, so I pretended it only hurt a little."

Victor opened his eyes at that and Isabel held back a proud smile at having managed to impress him.

"Ya're nuts!"

"Yeah, I know. But dey all congratulated me and invited me to go to parties at night wid dem. It made me part of de club and dey showed me more techniques. I was de more young and de more crazy in de group, and was _great_! I was basically a pro, running wid de bulls, when I was sixteen. Attention, because some of de guys were twenty and more, and I was _better_ dan dem."

"Ya really are suicidal, ain't ya?"

Isabel grinned at him, very much aware she was allowing unbecoming boastfulness to shine through.

"Obviously. I have to be suicidal to like you, right?"

He smirked and Isabel wondered why she was still holding the ice to her forehead. Her lower body was in far greater need of some cooling down.

"I suggest ya control that death wish, woman." He got up and started moving away. "I don't want ya bleedin' an' breaking bones every other day."

Isabel couldn't quite understand what he wanted her to control, but he was clearly worried about her getting hurt. Well, not worried in the exact sense of the word, but…

"Is ok, dis is nothing." She got up and went after him, now standing by the door. "I heal very fast. I mean, for a normal person. Is nothing compared to you, I know, but… Really, dis is nothing. Tomorrow I'm like new."

He grinned.

"Good to hear that."

Dumbass!

"Uh… Actually, I think I'm exagerating. I feel sick, and dizzy and… and you have three heads! Oh, I need to spend two or three days in bed and not do efforts."

Isabel turned to hurry back onto the bed, but he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her against him. It was about time he got his hands on her.

"If ya think that'll get ya out o' trainin' tomorrow…"

"But I'm dying wid pain!"

She twisted herself backwards, letting him see her wide smile.

"Oh, poor baby," he mocked. "Ya want Vic t'kiss yer boo-boo t'make it all better?"

"Hun?" What on earth was that supposed to mean. "Kiss what?"

"Boo-boo. That's baby talk for a wound."

She laughed, leaning onto him.

"Nah. My moder always said dat, when I was a kid and she offered to kiss a wound so de pain went away, I said no because kiss de wound hurts more, and dat I wanted sweets instead."

"Smartass! So ya want sweets t'get back t'yer feet, is that it?"

"I'm too big for sweets. I prefer kisses, but not in… boo-boos?"

"That can be arranged," he slapped her ass and led her back to the bed. "But ya better lie in bed fer a bit longer wi'that ice."

Isabel flopped down and failed to hold back a cocky grin.

"So, no more exercise today?"

"No, not today, but ya can bet yer ass ya're trainin' tomorrow."

Isabel groaned and made a face. Well, if she couldn't escape tomorrow's training, she saw no reason to lie in bed for much longer. She barely even felt anything on her forehead. She put the ice down and got up, slapping his ass as she did so.

"In dat case, I'm going back to de synthesizer to work on your music."

"Ya should keep the ice fer at least twenty minutes," he grumbled, and pulled her back down onto the bed.

"Is nothing special," she groaned. "Is just a little cut."

"Ice will make it swallow less, heal faster, and be bruised for less time."

Isabel rolled her eyes at the man's fussiness and flopped back again.

"Fine, like you want. Den you help me wid de lyrics. I have de paper on de table. You read de lyrics and I repeat after you, ok?" She saw him roll his eyes and grinned a gotcha. "Is de only way ya can keep me widout moving. I don't like do nothing, you know."

"I could tie ya t'the bed."

Isabel considered the idea. He wouldn't… unless she dared him. He might do it then.

"Please? Is your song. I can learn de lyrics wid mistakes if you prefer."

He breathed out and shrugged.

"Whatever. Where's that paper ya was talkin' 'bout?"

Isabel made herself more comfortable. A day without self-defense hell was well worth a bump in the head.

"Ok," he came back and leaned on the frame of the door, his attention on the paper in his hand, and Isabel sighed at the sight of his naked chest. "Start spreading the news."

She echoed his words distractedly and he frowned.

"Are ya gonna do this seriously?"

He was right. She rolled over and looked at the ceiling as he repeated the line.

"Start spreading de news," she recited to the rhythm of the song.

xXx

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	14. Vancouver: Morphing Scents

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **14\. Vancouver: Morphing Scents**

Creed rolled to his side in bed and frowned. Then, for the one thousandth time, he sniffed Isabel. It was getting stronger. Sure, it could be just the effect of being away from the woman for a few days, since he had finally resumed taking jobs, but still. It was stronger.

He had noticed her scent was changing a while back. Even before leaving the cabin. It was the lightest thing and, when she'd gotten that stomach bug, he had wondered if he had been smelling a weakening immune system. Sleeping with the same woman night after night and living with her in such close proximity, you end up noticing things about her scent you don't usually notice with other people. The same thing had happened with Birdy, though to a lesser degree.

Isabel opened her eyes and smiled softly.

"Hey, why you are so serious?"

"Nuthin'."

But it wasn't nothing. He sniffed her again, which got a sleepy giggle out of her, before she closed her eyes and tried to bury herself more deeply under the duvets.

Her immune system was fine, he had decided over the last two weeks, living in Vancouver. And it was no depression or anything like that. The woman had never been livelier, busying herself with sewing and doing her best to keep him happy. Not to mention she was back to her headstrong ways, since a couple of days before he had left for a job in Kansas, she had stood in front of him and said "piano or guitar, you choose". Because, she had reasoned, he was going to end up hearing her play so she wanted to make sure she was playing the instrument that least irritated him. He'd gone with a synthesizer. She even had more variety where it came to sounds or adding drums in the background and stuff, even if, so far, she hadn't used any of it.

Going through all the possible causes for a change in scent, an explanation had started to loom in his mind. He'd disregarded it at first, but it kept growing, from possibility to probability to plausibility to…

Only she had sworn it couldn't happen, back in Mexico. She'd even exploded with the doctor, saying it was biologically impossible. Creed hadn't touched the topic himself. Once he'd realised it was sensitive to the point of raging tears, he knew it wasn't worth his time. Now, though, he was wondering if he hadn't been negligent.

"Nesi," he called.

"I know," she groaned, not opening her eyes, "you want breakfast. I'm going."

"It ain't that," he growled lightly, which had her sigh in sleepy relief.

The next moment, though, the woman frowned and groaned, eyes still closed.

"You don't want train so early, right? Please, say no. Is too early for fight."

The Mexican doc had told them, over two months ago, that Isabel's menstruation was going to be messed up and take a while to become regular again. Still, irregular menstruation doesn't mean lack of ovulation. She could still get pregnant. That had triggered the explosion. Isabel had nearly attacked the doc, when she'd said she could get pregnant. Hell, she'd been sitting, all nice and subdued one second, and hitting the desk with her fists the next one. The doc had lept out of her chair like she had been about to get punched. And, in all likelihood, she had been.

Not biologically possible.

"Listen, ya ain't ever told me 'bout how ya can't get pregnant."

She stopped breathing for a couple of seconds. It was amusing the way she did that when something surprised her, especially if it was in a not-so-good way.

"Is nothing to say." She turned her back on him and apparently got ready to go back to sleep. There was no sleepiness in her voice, though. "What time is it?"

"It's early so ya got plenty o' time ta tell me all about it."

She breathed out tersely and remained motionless. He could tell she was making up her mind whether to yield in or kick about.

"I don't like talk about dat. I always wanted have a lot of children, you know. Three. Maybe four. Now I can't have none."

"Yeah, but how did ya find out 'bout it?"

Isabel groaned and sat up in bed, then she gave him a disparaging look.

"You are certain you don't prefer sex instead of talk? Or train self-defense?"

These days, she had a subtle way of issuing failed attempts at ultimatums that he pretended not to notice anymore, at least when she didn't push the envelope, but the matter was serious.

"Spit it out already."

"Look, dat people dat kidnapped people from oder worlds?" The ones who had had a mutant teleporting to mutant-free worlds to gather guinea pigs and who had brought Isabel over in the first place. "Dey were doing experiences. Of reproduction."

"What d'ya mean?"

The woman sighed.

"Dey kidnapped two groups, ok? When I was kidnapped, dey already had kidnapped oder people a year ago. Dey were from South America, so dey speaked Spanish and Brazilian, which is basically Portuguese, right? So… dey separate womans wid children and womans widout children."

"Women," he corrected.

"Isso. And den dey separate teenager girls and teenager boys and… and de children were wid de teenagers. I said I was 16 so I was wid de teenagers. And what dey did… Dey pregnanted de womans."

"Impregnated," he growled. "And it's _women_. I just told ya that!"

"Women, ok. So. De women dat already have children, dey tried to impregnant. But dey failed. De women couldn't get pregnant. De women widout children, dey tried to impregnant dem wid de men dey kidnapped, and dey got pregnant. And den dey tried to impregnant again, wid oder men, and… nothing."

"So ya're tellin' me that you an' the other women are, what, a different species and you can only get pregnant by men of yer own species, or world, or whatever, and ya can't get pregnant by anyone of this world? Is that it?"

Isabel nodded and Creed chewed on that idea for a moment. An actual different species… Could it really be?

"Ya know, horses an' donkeys are different species and ya can still breed 'em. Sure de offspring ain't gonna be breedin' nuthin' but… When ya got two different species dat are really close together, ya can always breed 'em. It's de offspring dat can't be bred, if de species are too different."

Isabel shook her head, irritated.

"So dat is not de reason. Is not important!"

Of course it was important.

"Who told ya all that?"

"De oder people dat were dere. Dey stayed a _year_ in dat place! Some of dem speaked good English, and dey hear de doctors, dey see what is happening… Is not difficult unite two and two."

Maybe. The guinea pigs could have missed something in the process, though.

"These women who were gettin' impregnated, did they actually never get pregnant in the first place or did they get pregnant but miscarried early on?"

Isabel's breathing stopped for a moment.

"I don't know."

It could be a genetic thing. What did Sinister sometimes say? You can prepare your experiences with the utmost care, but once you've got a fertilised egg up and running, you never can tell how the… what was the term? Multiplication? Whatever. You never can tell how the thing is going to evolve. The genes can always get in a… genetic conflict of sorts and the egg dies. Clones are easier to get right because you're not tweeking their genes but you still get too many unviable eggs.

"Why are you asking me dis?"

Creed could smell a whiff of fear coming off her but he was trying to think up ways of learning more about these biologic differences.

"Ya ever got tested on?"

Isabel shook her head.

"De teenagers had medical exams, but dat's all. De older girls, when dey were twenty, I think, dey were taken to de group of de women who never had children before."

"Did ya happen ta hear anythin' 'bout those tests? I know yer English sucked back then," it still did on too many occasions, "but ya're smart. Ya could have heard somethin' useful."

Isabel frowned thoughtfully.

"Was a lot of blood tests. You know, one off de people from de old group, she said dat… dey were trying to make a new race, I think. She said we had a special blood. A superior blood, dat was de expression, and dey wanted to… uh… join our blood and deir blood to make dem more strong. Because deir race was dying and dey needed new blood to save it. I didn't pay much attention to her babbling. She was a little bit… instable in de head. She disappeared a little bit after we arrived. I mean, dey took her away and she never returned."

The whole bit about a dying race was obviously bogus but…

"Are ya sure there ain't no mutants in yer world?"

She chuckled grimly.

"I think de news would have gone crazy wid something like dat."

That could be it.

"There's folks out there that think mutants are a plague that needs ta be wiped out. These scientists that were testin' ya all, they could'ave been lookin' fer a way ta mix yer inability ta have mutant offspring wi'the rest o' the people. Ya know, like a a vaccine that would stop people from breedin' mutants."

Only there must be such a large genetic difference between the two groups that they couldn't get viable offspring when they simply cross-bred them.

"Victor, why are you asking me dis?"

He looked her in the eye.

"Yer scent is off and it keeps gettin' more an' more off. Bein' pregnant would explain it."

She paled.

"But I…"

He didn't usually pay attention to pregnant women. Sure, he knew they had a peculiar scent about them. He had always thought of it as some sort of pheromone that manipulated his animal instincts into a protective stance. The bigger their bellies, the more noticeable and powerful the scent. It also changed from woman to woman, much like the sea can smell differently whether you're standing on a beach in South California or in Washington. Isabel, on the other hand, simply smelt like her scent was transforming into something else entirely new. It was appealing, even pleasant, but it didn't yell 'protect me' as the scent of clearly pregnant women. But what if that 'pregnant scent' only became obvious on more advanced stages of the pregnancy? What if it was normal for a woman's scent to actually morph into something else under the influence of it? He had no way of knowing.

He got off the bed and got a pair of jeans.

"Where you're going?"

"I'm gonna get a pregnancy test. There's no point sittin' aorund, wonderin', when we can easily find out."

* * *

"Starin' at it ain't gonna change the result."

Isabel looked up from the pregnancy test, looking thoroughly dispirited.

"I'm so sorry, Victor."

"What happened to 'I want half a dozen kids'?"

"I feel like I tricked you," she mumbled. "I really thought…"

Creed shrugged.

"Yeah, well, thinkin' never was yer strong suit. 'Sides, I got a feelin' ya're gonna get hit by this trick much worse 'an me."

She sighed dejectedly.

"Anyway, if what ya told me is right, ya'll probably gonna lose it anyway." He suddenly remembered the expression. "Chromossome defects. It means the eggs can never develop into a normal baby."

She looked stricken and lowered her head, embraced herself.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why it happens? Just because… because…"

"It's genetic," he shrugged. "Look, I should probably get ya a doc."

Especially as he had another job in six days and he'd rather have this mess cleared up by then.

"I don't want ya bleedin' half t' death one o' these days 'cause o' the miscarriage. 'Sides, it could also be a good idea t' have ya more thoroughly tested an' stuff. Ya know, blood tests an'…"

Genetic tests? Maybe. If he knew for sure that most medical procedures weren't going to out the woman as a genetic freak, he wouldn't need to worry whether it was ok to take her to a doc for this or that problem. Humans did tend to need medical examinations all the time, if they were to keep in good health. But where was he going to find a lab that was discret in case something odd came up in the results?

Well, first things first. He needed to find a trusted gynecologist.

"Now I wish I could give you a son," the woman said quietly, still embracing herself.

"Don't be dumb," he grunted. "Why the hell would I want a screechin' kid?"

* * *

 **Note** : I had Isabel mention that Brazilian is 'basically Portuguese'. In fact, Brazilian is Portuguese, albeit a different variety from the European one. Nevertheless, a lot of people will say 'that Brazilian isn't Portuguese' while they actually mean to say 'Brazilian Portuguese isn't European Portuguese' (well, duh: different accent, some different vocabulary, some different grammatical structures... if everything was the same, they wouldn't call it different varieties of the same language, right?). Anyway, it is an inaccurate expression, and most people who say it are actually aware that both varieties are Portuguese, but it's still a common way of speaking. Since Isabel isn't a language teacher nor is she an academic, she's using the inacurate term.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	15. Vancouver: Wishful Thinking

**!Warning!**

I'm afraid I'll be undergoing a period that will make going online a bit tricky. I may have to spend a couple, if not actually a few, days in a row offline, and these offline periods may come and go without warning. This means I won't be able to maintain my update schedule. As such, I will go on a one month hiatus.

I'm sorry for kicking off 2018 with a hiatus, especially with stories running, but it can't be helped. Anyway, I've decided to at least give you two chapters in a row in Hidden Years. I'll explain why in next chapter.

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **15\. Vancouver: Wishful Thinking**

Lying in bed, Creed couldn't help going over the same idea. What if. He thought about Graydon. He pictured the image of Leni Zauber holding a baby, even though he could only picture a roll of pastel blue blankets in her arms.

From the hormone levels, Isabel was about a month pregnant. Four weeks. Pregnancies are counted in weeks, apparently. It meant that, by now, Isabel would be on her way to the fifth week. The doc had said that, if there were chromosomal or congenital abnormalities, Isabel should lose the embryo within the first trimester, which went all the way to the twelfth week of gestation. It was a long time to wait, another seven weeks. A very long time to hang on the line, would it die, would it survive.

It was going to die, obviously. Sure, the woman was now praying ferverously, even if trying to do it behind his back, hoping against hope, but if her story was true – and he had no reason to believe it wasn't – then no other woman of her kind had ever gotten, and stayed, pregnant by a man of his kind.

There were the blood tests, too. Blood types are about proteins in the red blood cells. You don't have only one protein, but several. If you have them, you test positive, if you don't, you test negative. So if you test positive for A, you're type A. If you test positive for A and B, you'te type AB. And if you test negative for both, you're type O, which actually stands for zero. Most people think you only got two blood type systems: the ABO letters and the + and - signs. Some aren't even aware the second group is called Rhesus. Having worked with a man like Sinister, though, Creed was aware that there are other systems altogether, like the Kidd one or the Duffy one. Hell, there are over 30 proteins or blood groups or whatever you call them in any person's red cells! Still, not all of them will cause immune reactions. On top of that, he knew that the letters of the ABO system have subtypes, some of which can occasionaly be relevant enough, so to speak, to cause blood transfusion problems.

Isabel, apparently, had a whole new range of every damn protein.

Creed had had the insight of skipping the usual serologic tests and going straight for genotyping. It looks at the molecular basis of the whole blood system and, therefore, it determines all the minor blood systems and what not.

Isabels's blood was currently undergoing a second batch of testing, whose results Creed would have to make sure would disappear soon enough. So far, though, it was obvious that most if not all of Isabel's proteins on her red blood cells were slightly different and there were at least a couple of them which reacted aggressively, so to speak, when in contact with 'normal' blood types.

Adding to that, there were already antibodies in her blood against such 'normal' blood types. Meaning that she was sensitised. The doc had warned this meant that Isabel was at high risk of not being able to take a pregnancy to full term, since those antibodies would attack a baby that didn't have her blood type. Hemolytic disease of the fetus, he'd called it. Typically, this happens with Rh- moms and they can get a shot that will prevent serious complications, but that shot wouldn't work on Isabel since she was sensitised to something different than the Rh factor.

The docs who had been investigating this, at the compound he'd saved Isabel from, had probably been trying to develop shots against these new factors, Creed guessed. In vain.

So the baby was going to die.

But what if the baby… no, not baby, embryo. Embryo all the way to the 9th week then it became a fetus. So, what if the embryo was a mutant. Because there are babies who are born mutant. When do their powers kick in? Right from conception? He didn't know. But if it did, and if the embryo had a healing factor…

That was wishful thinking.

The baby could come out with her blood type, too. Though what was the likelihood of the embryo getting every protein in the red blood cells from the mum only and none from the father? It could still happen though. Lucky flukes and stuff.

More wishful thinking.

The woman must be rubbing all that stupid yearning on him.

Creed took a long drag from his cigar and released the smoke. Watched it swirling up, slowly.

He couldn't picture Raven holding that baby-like wrap. No wonder Graydon had turned out so wrong. Cold hearted and vindictive. Who had he gotten that from, he wondered. Because Creed was cold hearted, no doubt there, but Raven was a thousand times worse. Women aren't supposed to be like that.

Of course Graydon had turned out human through and through. If that embryo held out against all expectations, it was likely going to be pure human too. And why would he want a human weakling for a son.

Even if Graydon had turned out strong and resourceful for a human. He had known how to work around his weaknesses.

Isabel, for example, was a strong human. If the kid turned out to be human, it could end up being strong too. Relatively speaking. And there are humans out there that become as strong and as skilled, or more!, than many mutants. All it takes is the right training and a resilient constitution. He was physically over-resilient; the woman wasn't that bad for a human who had never trained. Why couldn't their kid turn out resilient?

A police car sped down the street, outside his hotel, bellowing through the small hours. Or an ambulance. They sound pretty much the same.

Creed got his cell phone and checked there were no messages. Of course not. The woman never texted. He rang her.

"Sim, o que foi?"

She always resorted to Portuguese when he woke her up abruptly.

"What time is it?"

"Hun?"

"What time is it," he growled.

"Uh… Is midnight. I was sleep, Victor! Why you call me to ask de _time_?"

Well, if she was whinning about being woken up, it meant she wasn't about to miscarry.

"What time did ya go t' bed?"

He heard her breathe out angrily and got annoyed.

"Well, I wouldn't have ta wake ya up every freakin' night if ya texted me first, would I?"

How the hell was he supposed to know if she was ok when she kept mum about it?

"You tell me to not contact you when you are in a job, Victor! Only if is an emergency."

What… That had been months ago! She was still in Wausau when he'd told her that.

"Look, just send me a text every now an' then so I knows ya haven't been kidnapped or are bleedin' t' death or somethin'."

A terse sigh.

"But isn't dat dangerous? If you are in a job and de phone makes noise…"

Right. That was why he'd told her not to contact him unless it was dire.

"I'll take off the notification sound. If it's an emergency, call. If it ain't, just text me with a report of what ya're up to."

"Ok," she said through clenched teeth. He could see it just from her voice. "I do dat. Ok?"

He ended the call and switched off the text messages notification then waited.

He could picture Isabel holding the baby-wrap. He could see her smiling and proud. Holding it securely.

He could see it crystal clear.

Her eyes, full of loving adoration trained on him, and her arms protective around the rolled blankets.

"I'll do anything for you," she'd tell him. "And for your son."

He looked at the phone. Nothing. He called Isabel again.

"Pelo amor de Deus," she griped on the other side. "What?!"

"Where the hell is that text ya _said_ ya was gonna send, huh?"

Silence.

"Are ya listenin' t'me, woman?"

"I write slow," she said in a flat voice.

Liar.

"I'm waitin'!"

Damn the woman!

Only there was no baby boy on his way because the embryo was going to die within the next seven weeks from genetic abnormalities or hemolytic disease or whatever.

The image of Isabel holding the blankets didn't disappear though.

He could almost see a little nose peeking out of the blankets. Curled blonde hair. A son. All his own. Even more his than Isabel could ever be. So much his, no one could ever steal him away.

Only it was never going to exist because Isabel couldn't…

"Damn it all to hell!"

He sat up and grabbed the phone. Ah! A text message. About time.

"I am trai slip. Good nait."

What kind of English was this?

"cant ya spell," he texted back.

"ESTOU A DORMIR"

Well, 'estou' was probably the same as the Spanish 'estoy', meaning 'I am'. 'Dormir' was the same as Spanish, meaning 'sleep'. So, she must mean 'I am sleeping'. Smart ass.

"dont use all caps" he texted back. "its rude, loud and annoying"

He waited a few minutes but he guessed she wasn't going to answer. Well, she did need to sleep. The doc had said pregnant women can get unnaturally tired in the first weeks and should rest a lot.

"Now I wish I could give you a son," she had said.

He was mildly pissed he felt the same way.

* * *

For anyone who's curious, here's a glossary:

"Sim, o que foi?" = "Yes, what is it?"

"Pelo amor de Deus," = "For the love of God,"

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	16. Vancouver: The Decision

**!Warning!**

As I mentioned in the previous chapter, I'll be going on a one month hiatus, but I'm uploading two chapters for Hidden Years (check out chapter 15 if you missed it).

Once again, I'm sorry for kicking off 2018 with a hiatus, especially with stories running, but it can't be helped.

I wish you all a great 2018 and... see you all in a month.

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **16\. Vancouver: The Decision**

The knife sliced through Isabel's finger and she hissed.

"Are ya bleedin'?"

Isabel rolled her eyes, but she smiled nonetheless. If he could smell the blood, why did he have to ask? And she had to tell herself off for imagining he simply didn't want to betray any worry about her well-being.

"Cut my finger," she said, putting it under running water.

"Be careful!" Victor growled from the living room. "Ya can't have blood transfusions so try not t' go about guttin' yerself."

Isabel smiled at the exaggeration, especially since a knife cut had meant nothing to him up until a few days ago. Again, he worried about her well-being. And she couldn't forget the day before when he had caught her training – as she did per his instructions every single morning – and he had thrown a fit! Was she insane, making stupid efforts while she was pregnant? Did she want to hurt herself? She had been too shocked to laugh then, thank God!, but she still got an urge to laugh every time she remembered the scene. No more abs, no more push-ups, no more nothing! Because he didn't want her falling over and bleeding to death. It was almost cute, if he hadn't been so intense about it.

But he was right on one thing, she should focus more on her cooking and less on the future. She had an ultrasound scheduled in ten days. She'd be eight weeks then. According to Victor's research online, that was pretty much the earliest you could spot… high-drops feetalis? Something like that. She searched online, too, and had found the Portuguese term for it. Hidropsia fetal. It sounded less alien, less scary.

Victor would leave the day after. His third job since their arrival in Vancouver. Sighing, Isabel put the knife down and got the chopped potatoes into the boiling pot.

He still expected her to stay inside the house every time he was gone, especially now that she was pregnant. He didn't want her getting upset or anxious, he'd grunted. Obviously, she didn't stay in. She had promised him she wouldn't leave every day and never if it wasn't important. Purposefully, she hadn't defined 'important'. Because going out into public areas, facing crowds and getting inside her thick skull she was not going to be attacked was _very_ important, as far as she was concerned, whether she was pregnant or not.

When he was away, she left the apartment day in, day out. Mostly because she often slept badly after spending time outside, especially when she had to go through crowds with men. It wasn't as bad as on the first days, but she still had some very uneasy moments. Obviously, she was not going to tell him about it. Sometimes she went out in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon. Not in the evening, though. He always called then, between five and nine pm, sometimes twice on the same day, and she told herself she should avoid letting him catch her outside so he wouldn't get annoyed. Besides, the rush hour started early in the evening and it was annoying talking on the phone outside. People could overhear, there was noise… No, she never went outside in the evening. Not unless Victor was in Vancouver and went out with her. She always felt safe when he was around, no need to stress over the rush hour and the crowds. Not that she would ever confess that to him, but he made her feel so at ease, as if she was home.

Oh, drats! She'd forgotten to add salt.

"Whatch'ya grumblin' 'bout?"

Isabel stopped, salt box in hand. The decision bubbled up suddenly and became immediately set in stone. She added the salt.

"Nothing," she answered casually before tidying up a bit and heading to the living room. "De lunch is ready in twenty minutes."

"Ok," he responded, going through a bunch of papers and checking stuff on the tablet.

Last minute preparations for his job, she guessed. She loved watching him doing these preparations. So serious and focused, alert. He never told her anything about his work. In fact, if he caught her looking at his papers he either got them out of the way or shooed her away, so she avoided showing an interest in it all. She simply wished he had fun when he left and fought hard against asking if it had gone well when he returned.

"Victor?"

"What?"

He didn't look up though.

"I have to ask you a _beeg_ favour."

" _Big_!" He corrected and looked up, frowning. She loved those amber eyes. "Are ya feelin' ok?"

"I'm fine," and she added a big fake smile.

"Ya don't look fine t'me. Is it nightmares when ya nap durin' the day? 'Cause ya ain't had none in the last nights. I'd have smelled yer fear if ya had. Are ya feelin' pain or… uh… what was the word the doc used… discomfort. Are ya feelin' any discomfort?"

He could be so obsessed. She sighed, not really able to put up a natural-looking 'everything's fine' smile. Besides, it suddenly occurred to her, maybe it was best if he realised something was wrong. Victor tended to do his best to fix whatever problem once he decided it was something serious and needed to be fixed, and right now she wanted him to realise the problem was serious enough that it required his attention.

"I don't understand de doctors," she said quietly. "If dey speaked Portuguese, I could understand better. If something happens, dey understand me better too."

Victor straightened up, grave.

"What d'ya mean?"

"Can I be in Portugal while… while dis process happens?"

The process of hoping and praying while expecting the worst. The process of losing the baby.

"When dis is all over, I come back. But _please_. Imagine something happens when you are away…"

He shook his head.

"The doc said hydropsis fetalis is more likely t' cause problems after the 12th week and it ain't likely t' cause nuthin' 'fore the 8th. That's over a week from now."

"But imagine," she insisted. "Here, I don't know how to explain me clearly to doctors. In Portugal, I have more control. You don't have to be always babysit me."

He chewed on the idea and Isabel knew this was going to need all her incentives. First, make him see the reality of her situation and how problematic it was.

"I lost all my family, my home, my dreams, everything. I was tortured and killed. I still have difficulty in face a lot of people. I still have difficulty be alone, widout you, in a big street. And now… now I am going to lose a baby dat I want so, so much. Please, let me go to a place where I can feel more strong to face dis loss and get over my problem wid people. Canada and forests is where you are more strong, but I am lost here. In Portugal, is more easy to become strong again and den I can come back and be independent again, so you don't have to worry so much about me."

Now it was time to hint at how much better for him the move would be too, so she smiled, sweetly, and slipped off the sofa till she was kneeling next to him, a hand lightly on his thigh, another at his hip.

"You make me so happy if you do dat," she whispered, her gaze locked on his eyes. " _So happy_."

He didn't move, and she closed her eyes, rested her forehead on his thigh. She could feel his muscle tensing up a bit at that touch.

"I do everything you want," she added. "You know I do."

She kissed his thigh over the jeans and looked up at him. She held his thoughtful frown for a long time, expectant but not pleading. Hoping to every saint she didn't look demanding. He sometimes said that she sounded demanding when she wanted to have her way. Great when he was amused and the demand was sex related, not so much when he wasn't in the mood to give in.

"Yer Portuguese paperwork ain't finished," he finally said. "Guess it'll be much faster if ya're there in person."

Isabel's heart leaped but she remained quiet. He sometimes seemed to be on the verge of yielding but then backtracked. Like when she'd wanted to go to a classical music concert – and it had been a small, semi-private affair at a hotel – and he'd said everything right to give the impression he'd take her there, just for him to pull out a big no in the end.

Good Our Lady, if the man gave in, she'd be the best little housewife and lover and everything rolled into one. He'd be spoilt for as long as they stayed: no sulking, no demands, no nagging, no talking back, and lots of compliance, compliance, compliance. And smiles, naturally! She'd smile through anything. With any luck, when they returned to Canada he'd realise she was at her nicest in Portugal and would let her go back regularly. Oh! She could try to convince him it was worth it to spend the winter in Portugal! No, he liked God-forsaken snowy woods way too much for that. But at least a month or a fortnight.

"I'll book us a flight fer the day after yer ultrasound."

 _Yes, yes, YES!_

"Thank you," Isabel smiled wide but kept quietly to his side. "What you want dat I prepare?"

The man shrugged.

"Whatever ya need ta take. What else d'ya have t'prepare?"

But then he shook his head.

"We may hav'ta stay there fer longer than a month, so look up a place ta rent. I ain't gonna be that long at a hotel and ya probably know the city well enough ta find a good spot fast."

Oh, yes! That would give her plenty of freedom to… Wait! She had to play it safe and make sure she wasn't going to go against what he wanted.

"Any specific things to rent de house?"

"Yeah. Away from crowded places; a safe, low criminality area; and where we won't look out o' place."

"Not out of place?"

"We need ta blend in, got it? We don't want folks pointin' fingers at us more than the strictly necessary. More: these documents I'm fixin' fer you, they set up a cover story fer you. Ya had a life in Portugal and I'm fixin' ta have some sort o' paperwork trackin' at least parts o' that life. Fer example, I'm gonna make sure ya actually have school certificates. It's gonna cost me a load o' money, but ya're gonna have 'em."

Ideas, ideas…

"What about people? You know, you can create false papers and dat, but if someone investigates, don't dey discover dat no people know about me? In person?"

"There's no one gonna be investigatin' nuthin' in person," he dismissed.

Isabel nodded.

"So, you want a house where I have no contact wid Lisbon people, right? Dat means areas where English, American, German and oder stranger people have houses. Dat is usually big terrains wid big houses or big condomeenioosh away from hospitals and services. Is dat what you want?"

Victor breathed in.

"No, I want ya near hospitals an' docs."

"Ok." Perfect, actually. What she wanted fitted his demands to the detail. "Den… is important dat you know dat people in Lisbon like to know about de people dat come in."

"Nosey, huh?"

"No, noise is in bar areas. No, I mean, dey want to know a little about your life. If you tell me what story cover you want dat I have, dat _we_ have, I choose a good place and I know exactly how to start de right stories about us. I lived in a small town wid people dat know everything about de life of everyone. I know how dis things work so I know how to pass de right ideas and stories."

He looked half convinced. Please, don't get in an aggravating mood!

"So ya're thinkin' 'bout what type o' neighbourhood?"

"An old part of de city. Is near to de centre, and has lots of services, doctors and hospitals near. Lots of public transport too. Are tourists during de day so nobody notices people from oder countries. Also, people from oder countries rent houses in dis areas when dey want to stay in Portugal for some months or years, so if we stay in a house dere, looks normal. _And_ , de majority of Portuguese people dat live dere are old people, so dey don't know very English and dey're not inside things dat happen in de world. And de young people usually are very… not cosmopolitan. No one is going to think a lot about where we come from, only about who we are and what we do."

Creed grinned.

"And who are we?"

She was about to respond with a playful retort but caught herself. Nice and compliant. She'd go on a pilgrimage to Fátima if she got her way.

"We are who _you_ want dat we are."

He shrugged.

"I'll think about it. Search fer some places in the meantime, will ya? I should be back next Monday, at the latest, and I wanna see a variety o' possibilities fer me t'choose from."

No problem. She'd have the right amount of variety she needed in two days or less.

"Thank you," she said as devotedly as she could muster then kissed his thigh again.

"Yeah, yeah. Ain't ya got lunch ta finish or somethin'?"

Right, no prolonged thank yous. She really had to find a way to thank the man that didn't annoy him. She'd so far learnt that peck-like kisses didn't cut it with him, and proper kissing was highly dependent on the reason behind the thanking. Maybe she should just ask him directly. Though not right now, since he was busy with work.

As she got up, though, her eyes fell on the synthesizer sitting placidly by the window.

"Huh… Can we bring de synthesizer in de plane? Is a bit big…"

"Don't be stupid, woman! 'Course we ain't takin' that with us. Not fer just a couple o'months. I'll rent a storin' unit ta stash it in and when you come back t'Canada it'll be sent t'yer new address."

Isabel held her breath. Did that mean he already knew where he was going to bury her next? The man was frowning through his paperwork again but she had to know.

"And where is de new address?"

"Southern British Columbia," he grumbled. "Ain't chosen a specific place yet. It'll take a ton o' prospectin' an' background checkin' and I ain't got the time fer it right now."

British Columbia? Where was that? She'd have to look it up. And what did 'saudarn' mean exactly?

The man looked up: "What're ya starin' at?"

"Oh, nothing! I… uh… I have to hit de bread. You want cheese and ham start..." Uh… why was he glaring at her that way?

" _What_ d'ya have t'do?"

"Hit de bread? Is from yesterday so is going to be…"

"Heat!" The man roared, getting up. "Hit is what ya want me t' do t' you. _Heat_ the bread."

"Isso," she smiled and hurried back to the kitchen.

He must be stressed with this job. He didn't usually blow that much when she missed words. Better just prepare lots of different starters than to ask him.

"Ya know somethin'?"

Great, he'd followed her to the kitchen. She really hoped he wasn't about to nag her about long and short vowels _again_. Who cared!

"If ya made just a tiny lil' effort t' actually speak properly, _that_ would make me happy."

Isabel blinked at the man, glaring at her from the door. Say what?

"Ya did say ya wanted t' make me happy, right? Because ya love me and I got ya out o' the snow and all that. So speak properly. Great place t'start makin' me happy!"

Was this for real? But fine! If he was taking her to Portugal, she'd bite the bullet. And there's nothing like right now to start on it. She smiled, hoping it came out angelical.

"I'm going to hiiiiiit de bread."

The man groaned and left. What? She had made the 'i' sound long, hand't she? What was he complaining about now?

* * *

high-drops feetalis: Isabel got the name wrong, obviously. The correct term is hydropsis fetalis.

For anyone who doesn't know, to Portuguese ears long and short vowels (like the difference between 'sheep' and 'ship') are pretty much soundalikes. And if it's hard to distinguish them, it's even harder to pronounce them correctly. Of course swapping 'sheep' for 'ship' isn't that bad, but I could tell some very funny stories involving beaches and sheets.

* * *

And at last: why two chapters? Because these were the last chapters set in Vancouver, Canada. The next chapters will be set in Portugal before their final return to Canada.

See you in February!

xXx

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	17. Lisbon: Moving

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **17\. Lisbon: Moving**

"This was the place you chose to rent?!"

Isabel had it on the tip of her tongue to tell him _he_ had chosen that particular flat from the list she'd put together. She didn't say anything for two reasons: first, she had decided to be sweet and compliant for her entire stay in Portugal; second, none of the other houses in the list were much different.

"Isn't it gorgeous!"

And it was. She really thought it was. Old fashioned and quaint, but so, so homelike!

Ignoring the man's scowl, she opened a window and inhaled deeply. It was mid-May and the flower pots crowding the tiny balconies were blooming fragrantly. Then she turned to smile at him.

"I think you actually chose the best one," she told him in her native Portuguese, though slowly and each syllable carefully pronounced.

Victor had warned her they were following a strict 'no English' policy, and although his Spanish allowed him to understand much of her Portuguese, she could not speak at a normal speed.

"Best location, definitely!"

Her comments on each house had definitely lead him to choose what Isabel considered to be the best location. Quiet, out of the way, old-fashioned neighbourhood, grocery store at the corner, and a withdrawn tabern turned into café and Fado House. It couldn't get more perfect.

"A no star hotel is less cramped than this joint," he grumbled in Spanish.

Well, an old building in the middle of the labyrinthic Lisbon heart can't be big. She followed him into their bedroom and skipped over to open its window. Oh, there were pots of carnations and bush basils on that window balcony. Though the carnations looked a bit dry…

"Have you looked at this bed?"

"Hun?" Isabel turned inside and looked at the bed. It was a bit smaller than his bed in Vancouver but…

"I'll hardly fit there!"

She didn't think there was anything she could say to soften that particular reality aside that Portuguese weren't usually very tall. Though, to be fair, most people weren't as tall as him anywhere. It would definitely not be wise to point out the bed was a huge improvement if comparing to his cabin mattress.

"And there's no shower! Just a tiny, useless bathtub!"

What an exageration! All bath tubs have shower heads. What else did he need? She moved on to the kitchen and inspected the small fridge and old-fashioned cooker. Well, it wasn't as if she was going to be cooking for a family of ten.

Family… She was praying ferverently day and night, though carefully not to annoy Victor with her devotions. He wasn't the least religious and it seemed to annoy him sometimes. If the other people who'd been experimented on for a year were right, that women didn't get pregnant, it must meant that, even when they got pregnant, they miscarried early on. Just like Victor had suggested. And that meant they wouldn't be pregnant for longer than the first trimester. Actually, that meant they had to lose the baby much earlier than the final weeks of the first trimester, right? Otherwise, the people would have said they got pregnant but lost the child, not that they couldn't _get_ pregnant. Right?

Eight weeks. Eight weeks and no sign of the hemolytic disease that should kill her child, as her blood tests had warned. Could she have hope then?

Oh, better not to hope too much!

She'd go on a pilgrimage to Fatima. Once the child was born and… No, not then. After the boy was older, she'd do it. She'd go on foot from Lisbon to Fatima. Victor could go to hell or do whatever, but she would do it, if this son she was carrying was born safe, sound and healthy.

Possibly the only child she'd ever be able to bear.

She'd baptise the boy in Fatima, she decided. She'd consecrate him to Our Lady in exchange for the miracle of his birth.

Oh, don't hope!

Shaking her head, to stop thinking about the topic, Isabel went back to the window and glimpsed a neighbour quickly retreating from her own window. Checking the new-comers, huh?

Isabel hurried back to the bedroom and quickly started unpacking. They had places to go, business to attend to. Which basically meant going to the Citizen's House and drowning in bureaucracy.

"This is a freakin' shithole!"

Going back to English, huh? That meant he was very pissed. What would be the best way to calm him? Isabel put some clothes in a drawer and looked up at him. Maybe offer a solution.

"You prefer to rent a different house?"

"Portuguese!" He hissed in a low voice, though in audible English. "I've told ya not ta speak no English here! I'm Spanish-Canadian and ya're Portuguese and we both prefer our childhood languages t' English! How many times do I have t'say that?"

"The windows are open," she whispered back to him, once more in Portuguese. "And the neighbours are trying to listen in."

"Well, I ain't shoutin', am I?"

But he glanced over at the bedroom window and grunted, before sliding back into Spanish.

"Leave that alone and let's go. The sooner we got those documents fixed the better!"

He frowned suddenly though and looked at the ceiling.

"What is it?"

The man breathed out with a light growl then scowled at her.

"The upstairs neighbour just invited his girlfriend into his bedroom."

So? But then she heard it. A girl's voice squealing and a bed creaking.

"Are there neighbours below us or is that floor vacant?"

The sound of bed springs could be faintly heard in the quiet mid-morning. Isabel got the feeling there was a school-skipping teenager upstairs that was putting the apartment to good use while his parents were away at work.

"Uh… Dona Mila, an old lady, lives there."

"Right. I don't even even know why they bothered to put up walls and floors. Could have just piled everyone into a communal room and leave it at that. I mean, the only thing missing here is seeing the action because even the deafest person would be able to hear everything anyone does in these houses!"

Isabel bit her lower lip as she looked at the floor. Upstairs, the bed springs were getting into a steady rhythm, loud and clear. With any luck, the old lady was a bit on the deaf side.

"Let's go already!"

She got her handbag and followed Victor out. In the worst-case scenario, the whole neighbourhood would soon know the newcomers must be on their honeymoon.

* * *

Creed listened intently. He could hear the old wooden floor creaking in the late evening, people talking loudly down the street, pidgeons and turtle doves cooing on rooftops, a cat meowing up the street, a TV blaring from across the street, the old downstairs neighbour dragging her slippers as she moved around, his own heartbeat, Isabel's heartbeat. He couldn't hear his son's heartbeat, though.

When Isabel had done the ultrasound, a week ago and still in Canada, the doc had said there was no sign of problems and Creed had breathed out in relief. Of course it was very early and the embryo could still die, but he had felt a wave of relief nonetheless. Because his blood type could, just by pure random chance could, be the same as Isabel's. Even if it made him into a regular human. No matter how flimsy the chance…

Though he really shouldn't be thinking in those terms. Son, baby, he, him… Once Isabel's body looked at the embryo as a threat, the child would die quickly. The tiny little thing inside the woman's womb was an embryo. It.

Creed closed his eyes and focused harder. He had been dying to ask the doc, back in Canada, when you could first hear the tiny heart, because even if the ultrasound had been able to show the tiny thing beating – and so fast! – there had been no sound. Which was weird, if you think about it, isn't the exam called ultrasound? It should have sound, if you asked him.

There's something reassuring about a regular heartbeat. It tells you life is strong and steady within someone. Obviously he had not betrayed that stupid urge. Why hear the heartbeat of something destined to die? But he'd googled it. You need a fetal doppler, a sort of portable heartbeat monitor, if you want to hear it between weeks 6 or 8 and 20. After that, you start being able to hear it with a stetoscope. He knew he'd be able to hear it himself at that stage. The question was if his heightened hearing could pick it up earlier.

Obviously, though, nine weeks was too early.

But he really wanted to hear it. Sites and forums for moms went on and on about how fast the beat is, between 120 and 160 beats a second. You need to scare a person half to death, literally speaking, to get them to have that type of heart rate. He didn't know if you could do it in Portugal, but most English speaking moms on the forums said you could rent a doppler. He kind of hoped Isabel said something about wanting to monitor the child's heartbeat so he could go out and rent one of the things, even if it meant getting on a plane back to the States to do so, but she had said nothing on the topic and he bit down the impulse. It was a dumb one anyway.

Isabel's hand played with his hair lazily and she sighed, but Creed persisted in his attempt to hear something. It was calming, listening for something that focusedly in a quiet evening. Especially with the woman's scent strong about him. Soothing. That ever-morphing scent of hers just got more and more soothing, not to mention that by now anyone with heightened senses would have been able to smell the specific 'pregnant fragrance' on her.

"Are you asleep," Isabel asked in a whisper.

Shut up was the answer on the tip of his tongue.

"We should go out to the café up the street," she carried on in her soft whisper. "Everyone goes out to a café after dinner. It'll look strange if we don't do the same."

With a groan, Creed sat up on the bed.

"Nights are cool," he reminded her. He said it in English but caught himself and forced himself to carry on in Spanish. "I don't want you getting a cold or being exposed to tobacco smoke. You're pregnant. You can't afford to get sick. Besides, isn't coffee bad when you're pregnant?"

He was pretty sure he'd read that somewhere. Coffee was a mild no-no next to the strictly forbidden seafood and raw food such as sushi or rare steaks or unpausterised stuff, but it was still to be avoided.

Isabel smiled and shrugged.

"Canada is colder, love." It still rubbed him the wrong way when she called him that, even if she only did so in Portuguese. But apparently women usually call their partners that in Portugal so, for the sake of their cover story, he forced himself to get used to it. "And I'll wear a coat. Besides, it is forbidden to smoke in closed places and I don't have to drink coffee. I can just drink water or juice."

"Pasteurised," he warned her immediately.

The woman chuckled, though he couldn't see what was so amusing.

"Bottled juice always is."

Yeah, well, bottled juice can also be anything but juice. Though the brand she usually asked for tasted very close to the real McCoy.

"Please, Victor," the woman said in English, as she straddled his legs and embraced him, trim fingernails trailing up his neck. "Is important to our cover story."

"For," he corrected.

The woman smiled and drew closer.

"Is important _for_ our cover story."

Creed kissed her. What else was she begging for anyway?

"Tomorrow," he told her as he zipped open the dress she was wearing.

Not that he was planning on taking her anywhere the following evening.

"Promise," she asked.

"Get off the dress, mi Nesita," he answered, hoping that order and nickname combined would distract her from the topic before it ruined the night.

Nesi flowed better when he was speaking in English, but these days, since he was straining to keep to Spanish in order to avoid accidental slips into English, Nesita sounded more natural. He had added the Spanish possessive in reaction to Isabel's unnecessary ' _my_ love', which true, she tried to avoid, but it still came out too naturally, too often. The woman had once upon a time bristled against such possessives directed at her, but now she seemed to be taking it in stride and the expression 'mi Nesita' was slowly sinking in even for him.

Dress and stockings sprawled on the bedroom floor, Isabel ignored his shirt buttons and started unbuckling his belt. She always attacked it first and left the shirt for him to get rid of without assistance. A thought crossed his mind and he stopped undressing.

"You are _not_ going to that café when I go to Canada."

Because he had to go back to get more documents that would then have to be translated that would then have to be certified that would then, finally, hopefully, be accepted without comments.

The woman breathed out lightly.

"You can go and check out the place before you leave," she told him. "And then, while you're away, I'll stop by only during the day, after lunch. _You said_ we have to act normal and blend in, Victor. You've seen how many cafés there are around! If we don't go to one in our neighbourhood after meals, we're freaks of nature. Hermits. We _won't_ blend in."

True. Portuguese people were café obsessed, whether it was to drink coffee or to eat pastry or just to hang out in the outdoor areas.

"Fine. You can go there after lunch while I'm away."

Her smile grew from ear to ear. Yeah, he knew. All he had to do was say yes to a request of hers and she became the smiliest, horniest minx in town. He could live with that. Especially as denials didn't turn her into a sulky, frigid hag. She still smiled, though it was sometimes a bit forced, and she still welcomed his advances, even if she didn't initiate anything herself.

"Let's find out how deaf that woman downstairs really is, huh?"

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	18. Lisbon: Settling down

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **18\. Lisbon: Settling down**

Isabel woke first that morning. The third in her new house! Not that it was really her house, or would ever be, since it was a rental, but who cared! She was home. At last and for so little time.

She slipped off the bed and put on a light cotton robe before opening the shutters and the window. There were only old walls and roofs to be seen, but the May morning was wonderfully cool and she felt a shudder of delight. She would have preferred to open her bedroom window to trees and fields, to hear dogs and cockerels fuss far and near, to smell the countryside. Not that she was about to complain: there were no Fado houses in the countryside and she had one just up the street. Ah, there was nothing like getting up early after staying up late listening to good singers and players! Not that Victor had allowed the night to grow that late…

A couple of pigeons flew by noisily and her smile spread even wider. Below her, old women were sweeping the street and mopping the stairs imediately in front of their doors while complaining about someone's doctor over here and an ex-daughter-in-law over there. Open windows helped spread the echo of cutlery hitting mugs filled with milk and coffee, and you could get a whiff of buttery toast in the breeze. Around the corner, an old grocery store advertised its fresh bread through its alluring aroma.

This was happiness: the warm sun on her skin, the smell of fresh food and the sound of her language. The idea that she would only savour it for a couple of months at best made the pleasure more intense, more desperate to enjoy itself to the utmost and save every memory as freshly as possible.

"Hey," Isabel started and turned around to face a cross Victor, though not too cross, since he was still speaking in Spanish. "Isn't it too cold for you to be standing there? I don't want you getting a cold or anything."

She laughed. Pure joy and amusement. What cold, man! But she didn't say those words out loud, naturally. She didn't want to aggravate her Victor's bad mood.

He had put up with hellish bureaucracy in Canada, he'd told her. But now he'd discovered that Portuguese bureaucracy is not swift either – especially when you lack nearly every document and are trying to have them issue official documents to match false ones – and the fact he had decided to pass off as a Spanish-Canadian with a penchant for his Spanish up-bringing didn't help either. He had to always think twice in order to speak with true Spanish patterns rather than South American accents and words. Adding to that effort his struggle to understand the quick, idiomatic Portuguese of the capital, spoken either carelessly and contracted or rhythmically and metaphorically, he was grumpy to say the least.

Isabel closed the window and jumped back onto the springy bed.

"It is not cold, my love." He scowled at her. "Compared to Canada, it's almost hot!"

He grunted and got up. Isabel sighed and embraced her legs. That was yet another thing he was not used to: being called 'love', even if it was in Portuguese. The first time he'd reacted against the expression, she had asked him, carefully, if he had changed his mind about creating a cover of a normal couple or, more exactly, a couple sending off all the right cues of happiness. Now she avoided reminding him that a Portuguese woman will naturally call her boyfriend that way. He knew it. He just needed to get used to it.

"I'll go get some bread while you have a shower," she said. She'd just put on a…

"No, ya aint!" He slipped back to English. "I saw how ya left yesterday: ya had almost no clothes at all! Ya're gonna end up gettin' a cold and ya know ya can't have no medicine while ya're pregnant. When the hell are ya gonna start takin' this seriously, woman? That's _my_ kid and ya ain't gonna do nuthin' that can harm it. Especially not in the first three months. Ya said it yerself they's the most dangerous."

Isabel was careful to keep her face and body as neutral as possible. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate his fierce protectiveness of his unborn son, but he could be so exaggerated! Not to mention she didn't like it when he let slip that confidence the child would be born. They still didn't know. She was scheduled for another ultrasound in a week – the tenth of her pregnancy – and it wouldn't be unexpected if it was found the child was developing hydropsis and the whole pregnancy would have to be terminated. If the man were to start thinking of the child as likely to make it… She didn't want to see his reaction when things went wrong. Still, it could be worse. If he had no concern for the child, it would be much more worrying. Suppose the child was born and he didn't feel fatherly towards it? Much worse than a bit of heartbreak, in her opinion.

"I use a coat," she said softly in English, which only earned her a growl.

"I've told ya once, I've told ya a thousand times! Ya ain't supposed ta talk ta me in English. Portuguese and Spanish only!"

Right. Which was why he could turn to English whenever he was too annoyed to speak anything besides his own native language.

"I'll wear a coat," she repeated in Portuguese, making an effort to keep her voice subdued.

"No, ya won't. _I_ 'll go there."

Huh… to the grocery? Dona Ana Maria's ancient corner shop? Where any clients and neighbours got their lives throughly discussed by the old lady who must be the most outspoken, in-your-face, embarrassing master of the art of obvious innuendoes? Even Isabel had taken a step back the first time she'd gone in and the crone'd asked her about that honeymoon which didn't even give them time to go out for a coffee after dinner. Even though they had only spent a night in the house, at that time. Although, to be honest, the old woman was the perfect ally in her quest to convince Victor that going out for a cup of coffee after dinner is essential to blend in.

Anyway, this needed diplomacy. If he was going to the shop, he needed to speak Portuguese – which he hadn't done yet, beyond the mandatory 'thank you'. Not to mention he'd have to mix politeness, openness and playfulness, and keep it natural. Which word was more loaded, 'teach' or 'show'?

Just in case, she put on a pair of jeans and a sweater then placed her coat on the bed so he would notice it the minute he left the bathroom. Last but not the least, she got her coin purse and waited for him to finish his shower.

He came out with a towel around his waist, water dropplets sliding from his hair onto and down his chest. It was amazing how that body stirred her up! She didn't disguise it, or the grin she offered to his scowl. There was nothing quite like sex to lighten the man's mood. Fighting aside, naturally.

"Whatch'ya grinnin' at?"

"I'm thinking that Dona Ana is going to have bread until midday."

His eyes travelled her body and Isabel was about to throw that purse aside and strip when he shook his head and reached for his clothes.

"No," he finally returned to Spanish. "You need to eat."

She smiled instead of rolling her eyes, then she sat sheepishly on the bed, watching him as he put on his boxers and his jeans. Enjoying the way he stooped to reach a shoe partially under the bed and which showed off his ass so nicely, Isabel wondered how long he'd stay away, getting the Canadian documents he needed to get his Portuguese temporary residency visa.

"Do you want me to tell you what to say in Portuguese?"

"Since it's the only language you can speak properly…"

He said it with a fleeting lopsided grin which proved his mood was definitely improving and she rewarded him with a teasing smile, as he called them, before lying back on the bed.

"Ok. Just say 'Bom dia, Dona Ana! São dois pães, se faz favor.' and if..."

"Hold it."

Isabel let the tip of her tongue slide along her upper teeth as her eyes followed his fingers, buttoning the shirt.

"Quit teasin', ya lil' minx. Now say it again more slowly so I can practise it."

She obeyed. Then instructed him on what to say if the old lady asked this or that. And if she implied a certain something, he should answer in kind with a specific expression and close it with a provocative lopsided grin.

"Perfect," she said, smiling proudly. Or almost perfect. "I've always said you're a genius at picking up languages."

Victor grabbed her purse and got the money he'd need. Then his eyes fell hungrily on her and Isabel's breathing suspended itself. He grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her to him, kissing her avidly as one of his hands pawed her ass. When he broke the kiss, he held her close to him, looking her straight in the eye.

"Throw those jeans out," he growled in Spanish. "I've told you I want you _accessible_."

The thrill of his hunger quivered up and down her spine. As he left, Isabel hurried off the bed and to the window to watch him go down the street. She heard him wish a resounding 'good morning' to the women sweeping their house's entrance and was careful to remain hidden as they started whispering about the freshly-arrived couple. Such a pity she didn't have heightened hearing!

Well, better to change, right? And only then, as she started peeling off the jeans, did she notice he had ripped their bottom. The pair was useless. Couldn't even be repurposed into shorts!

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	19. Lisbon: Dead

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **19\. Lisbon: Dead**

Victor had left for Canada the day before and Isabel had made up her mind. It was ten in the morning, on that last day of May, and she was about to return home.

Home! She was on a different world – call it universe or dimension or what you will – and she had no idea if she would be about to come face to face with her twin in this world (do you even call them twins, your other worldly versions?). Still, she had to come. She had to walk on the streets and fields that had been her whole life and say a proper farewell. Nevertheless, she'd been careful. She had bought a hat and was wearing a long dress. She had put up her hair and added large sunglasses. Hopefully, no one would recognise her or confuse her for her counterpart in this world.

Her heart beat harshly as she recognised the fields she'd seen so many times when travelling by train. And it beat painfully as the last train station approached and she got ready to leave.

It was all exactly the same and yet… She hadn't been away from this place for much longer than a year so there couldn't be that many differences anyway. That graffiti on the wall, for example, it looked weathered but it was not the graffiti that had been there in the last five years or so. Did it mean that any differences were because of different events in this world?

Santarém's train station was down by the river; the city was up on the hill, a long, harsh ascent on foot. Isabel's aim was not Santarém, though, but the small town of Santa Iria, on the margins of the river. Frightened and expectant, she started towards the church of the Holy Cross.

She walked by the road for a few minutes till she reached the small town. There were businesses and people she recognised, but no one recognised her. Could it be because of her disguise? Maybe. But she also called people's attention. In a place where everyone knows everyone, even if only from seeing you walk up and down the street on your way to work, every stranger is noticed, and people, especially the older ones, all turned to look at her.

It took her ten minutes to get to the church. She'd sung in its choir since she was four, even if she hadn't done much actual singing then. She knew the church, the priest, the church ladies and nearly every local person that went to mass regularly.

Taking a moment to calm herself at the church door, she took off hat and sunglasses before going in. Tears welled up. It was different. The wall tiles, centuries old, had slightly different patterns. She walked in slowly, studying the images of the saints. Some were exactly the same, but others were not. Two women came out of the sacristy, carrying fresh flowers and candles. Isabel recognised one of them, Dona Angela. She'd been helping the priest since she was a young woman, over forty years ago. She knew Isabel as well as Isabel's grandmother, Lilia, and she had often baked biscuits and brought them to church on Sundays to give Isabel and the other children in the choir. Both women stopped for a moment to look at her, then they forced a polite smile, reserved for strangers, and carried on.

It was a different world altogether. Probably there was no Inês Sofia at all, here.

Vertigo got hold of her and Isabel supported herself on the nearest pew. Then she sank to her knees and started praying through tears.

* * *

It was almost two p.m. when Isabel's phone rang. Sitting on the sand of the river margin, whose water was very low at the time, Isabel hurried to answer.

"Hey, what're ya doin'?"

Always straight to the point, that man, and she couldn't help smiling through her sadness. No one recognised her in her hometown. She was indeed an alien in this world of mutants, as Victor had so aptly put it once upon a time.

"Estou a matar saudades."

"Uh? Ya're killin' what?"

She chuckled.

"Saudades," she said in Portuguese, "it's… how can I explain it… Saudade is this feeling of nostalgia and longing for things you lived in the past. And when you relive those things, then you say you're killing your saudade. It can be as simple as eating a cake you haven't eaten in months or visiting the house where you grew up or, I don't know, anything!"

Except there are some saudades you can never kill. The saudades of the friends and family gone forever, for example.

"Right. So… what're ya doin' exactly?"

She had to laugh now.

"I am eating a sandwich by the river," she explained in Portuguese, although she was almost finished. "Uma bifana, which is steak of pork stuck in the bread with a ton of mustard and ketchup. It's to die for! But I am not drinking the mandatory beer, if that's what you're worried about. Just water."

It occurred to her suddenly he'd think she was in Lisbon and maybe, just maybe, it was best if he kept thinking that.

"Ok. Don't stay out till late, ya hear?"

"No," she switched to English. "I don't stay late."

Because she could come back tomorrow. In fact, she would come back tomorrow. She'd buy a camera and take lots of photos because, if she was not coming back to Portugal, then at least she'd have photos to reminisce over. And she'd also go to neighbouring towns she had considered part of her personal range. She should have a car, for some of those trips, but she'd have to settle for a taxi. It would end up expensive, but worth it.

She'd simply have to balance her expenses and save on… clothes.

Isabel sighed. Yeah. She was going to spend all the money she hadn't spent while in Vancouver, and if Victor decided to complain… well, he could stuff it! She had a lot of saudades to kill.

Although… she could get a driving license. Yeah, that's exactly what she should do. She knew the Traffic Code, so she'd only need a couple of lessons for show. And the same went for the driving lessons. She could be doing the exam in a month or less! As for Victor… well, it would be much harder for her to get a driving license in Canada. He should be happy she was getting one in Portugal. There was likely going to be some paperwork involved, but surely it would make things easier.

Well, time to go back and put it all in motion: contact a driving school, buy a camera… oh! She'd nearly forgotten: Jubilee! She had to email the young woman and… make up a story of sorts. Preferably make her feel like the next email would take a long while because she was busy, busy. She couldn't let Victor become aware of her friendship with the young X-Men, and she couldn't allow Jubilee to get too close either. What a mess! Anyway, first of all, she would pay her respects.

The local cemitery wasn't nearby, so she had to get a taxi. When she got there, she crossed herself and went in. First, she went to her father's grave, which wasn't as easy as she'd first expected, since it wasn't in the same place. When she finally found it, she felt sick. She felt so sick, she had to sit down.

It was a twin grave. In the loving memory of António Carlos Pereira dos Santos, beloved son, husband and father, and of Inês Sofia Ferro dos Santos, beloved daughter.

Isabel sat there for what felt like an eternity before she managed to look at the dates. She had died in the crash. In her world, Grandma Lilia had always hailed her survival as a miracle attributed to Our Lady of Fátima. In this world… there had been no miracle.

Isabel prayed for both souls and then got up, even if she still felt a bit faint, and searched for Grandma Lilia's grave. She couldn't find it, though. Did that mean she was still alive? In Isabel's world, Grandma Lilia had developed alzheimer and had decided to put an end to her own life rather than lose her dignity.

"Our Lady, Holy Mother that she is, will understand and protect my soul," she'd said.

Nevertheless, Isabel had ended up helping her, even if Grandma had accepted her help unwillingly. Had Grandma Lilia not developed Alzheimer here? Or had she but hadn't been able to end her life? Because she would not have been able to do it without Isabel's help, in her reality.

Shaken, Isabel found another taxi to take her to the train station.

Inês Sofia was dead. No wonder no one recognised her in the street! She was dead.

It occurred to her that she could perhaps take on the identity of the child, which was her own. But what for? That identity was part of a large family. To take it on but not have the family to go with it… what was the point, really?

It was almost 4.30 when her phone rang again.

"Hey, what're ya… Are you on a train?"

Isabel didn't have the strength to say much.

"Sim."

"Where the hell are ya goin' on a train?"

She was silent. There was so much she could say in answer but she felt too down to do so. And she really didn't feel like starting an argument with the thick headed ass if she didn't have the strength right now to think up what to say.

"Hey, are ya listenin' t'me? Where are ya?"

"I am going to start driving lessons," she said. "That way, I will not be dependent on trains and subway and taxis and buses and… It'll be easier to get to anywhere and back."

There was a moment of silence.

"Why this talk o' drivin' all of a sudden? Where did ya go?"

"Oh, for the love of God, Victor! To go anywhere I need a taxi, which are way too expensive, or a bus, which take forever and are crowded, or the subway, which is fast but crowded, or the train, where I am right now. And you want to know why? Because I was worried about being recognised by someone, because I have a big family, you know, and they're everywhere from Coimbra to Lisbon, plus a few in Porto, and a few in Algarve. And I have lots of friends, and school colleagues, and choir colleagues, and they are mostly in the Lisbon area, you know, all the way to Azambuja and Marinhais, and I was _worried_! So I decided to face it and go to places where people can recognise me and see if… I don't know! But you know what I found, huh? I'm dead. You hear? I am _dead_!"

"Ya're gonna take a deep breath an' slow down, got it? Then ya're switchin' back to English. I ain't makin' heads an' tails of what ya're babblin' 'bout. What d'ya mean ya're dead?"

Isabel took a deep breath and looked around. She'd been hissing at the phone, so the few people in the carriage wouldn't overhear the conversation but she wasn't sure how successfully she'd been. She got up and moved on to the next carriage, choosing a spot by the door, away from the sitting passengers, and switched to English.

"I'm dead. In my world, I was in a car accident when I had two years old. My fader died, but I lived. Was a miracle, because de car fell into a… a… place wid water, like a small river. De belt of my sit broke and I floated, apparently. My fader died."

"Ok. So ya found out that ya didn't survive in this world, is that it?"

"Yes, I'm _dead_."

"Ok. Ya do know _you_ ain't really dead, right? It's just some other version of you that don't mean nuthin' t'the real _you_. Got that? Ya was clinically dead a few months back. _That_ was real, 'cause it affected _you_. Now, whatever happened to other world dimension versions of you, that don't mean nuthin'. In fact, it's kinda good news, 'cause now there ain't no one gonna recognise ya an' confuse ya with someone else, right? So, take a deep breath an' get over it. Calmer now?"

Isabel didn't know why she'd told him. He was obviously not going to understand why it disturbed her.

"Yes," she sighed.

"Good. So, where are ya exactly?"

"In a train," she grumbled in English, looking at her watch. "More or less twenty minutes and I arrive in de house. And I'm giving time for de taxi and de traffic."

Although, at this time of day, she should have no problem with traffic whatsoever.

"Ok. Next time ya wanna check birth an' death registries, lemme know, ya hear? I don't want ya goin' apeshit over stupid nonsense."

Obviously. That was obviously what the man thought all of this was.

"Yes, love," she went back to Portuguese, eager to get rid of his inability to understand her pain. "I got to go now. Will you call me again later? I was thinking about going to bed early. Sleep it all off."

"Ok. Send me a text when ya go t'bed so I won't wake ya."

She hung up and glared at the phone, then became suddenly miserable and tears started rolling down her cheeks silently. Isabel sat down on the carriage floor, by the door, and sank her head in her hands.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	20. Lisbon: Perfectly Fine

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **20\. Lisbon: Perfectly Fine**

Isabel got off the bed, as silently as she could, and showered. Then she tip-toed into the kitchen, lit a candle next to the image of Our Lady she kept half hidden near the window and quickly went through her morning prayers. Please, please! Two more weeks, more or less, and the first trimester would be over, no sign of problems, and she could finally allow herself to believe her son might be born. She'd go to Fatima on foot, she promised, and should she happen to ever have another child, she'd return there and do the pilgrimage on her knees. She understood miracles require sacrifices and she was not afraid of sacrifices, no matter the pain, she promised Our Lady.

Victor had probably woken up when she had gotten up, but he seemed to have taken a liking to lazying up in bed whenever he could so she took advantage of it.

She was about to add the whisked eggs to the chopped bacon, ham and assorted chorizos when she heard the bed springs complain.

"You got up early," he said in Spanish. "What are you up to?"

"Good morning to you too," she turned to him with a purposefully wide smile, speaking her clearest Portuguese. "I was trying to make you a surprise breakfast in bed."

"Right. Well, I'm going to have a shower and then I'll have my non-surprise breakfast in the kitchen."

She laughed and put the bowl aside. She'd cook it once he got off the shower so the scrambled eggs were freshly made when he sat down. While she was waiting, she opened the bedroom window and started tidying the room, humming a melody.

"I'm off to the Citizen's House again today," she said aloud when she heard him turn off the water. "Shall I text you whatever new documents they decide they want?"

It was only her third trip there. The first one had been on the day after their arrival, when they were still living in the hotel. That one had led Victor to Madrid to get some papers for himself and left her all alone in Lisbon for two whole days. After his return, she had had her first doctor appointment, rented a house and visited the Citizen's House again. That second visit had forced Victor to return to Canada for five whole days in order to get official looking documents – which were actually fake, though expensively high quality, he claimed – and Isabel had taken the train to visit the countryside she so sorely missed every single one of those days. He had only returned the day before, and in a terribly rotten mood. Naturally, she'd kept quiet about her holidaying, just in case he decided he wanted to know her movements in detail, and then imagined she'd been courting danger and got even angrier. Isabel had taken it up as her mission to keep him amused and in the best of moods possible. It was the only way she could talk him into socialising.

"Those assholes have better not ask fer stuff they ain't mentioned so far." He grumbled from the bathroom in English. "One thing is ta ask fer translations, another completely different is ta say 'hey, I just remembered! Ya also need whatever!' I'll tell ya what they need: they need ta see someone gutted in front o' them as motivation ta do their job. That's what they need!"

Right. Better not text him, then.

"Can I start on your eggs?"

"Yeah, I'll be out in no time."

Isabel hurried back to the cooker and, by the time Victor returned to the kitchen, she was putting his eggs on the plate with a wide, light-hearted smile.

"There you go!"

"Ain't ya eatin' nuthin'?"

"I've already eaten," she explained, smiley, as she started washing the pan.

The smiles had started back in Canada. At the time, it had been just a way of telling him she was fine without having to say so. Especially because it had become obvious, very early on, that she'd say she was fine even when she was in obvious pain. Obviously, the man hadn't realised that she said it as much for herself as for him. Repeating that idea – I'm fine – was a sort of technique (ok, a bit crazy technique) to help her get over what was wrong. Nevertheless, it annoyed him, so she'd switched to saying the mantra to herself and giving him smiles. Of course, she couldn't force a wide smile when she was in pain, so he had quickly accepted that if she was smiling wide, she was indeed fine.

When the nightmares had become fewer and less intense, the smiles were already a habit on their way to being ingrained. And once she had arrived in Portugal, it had become so easy to have the widest smiles from dawn to midnight that it was hardly a chore to flash him delighted smiles at every turn.

Right now, though, she just wanted him to calm down enough to slide back into Spanish. After all, he had been the one saying English was off limits; that he wanted folks associating him to Spain, not America. Of course, he could fall back into the language anytime he got pissed; she got told off whenever she tried to use the language for any purpose. Whatever! She much preferred speaking Portuguese anyway.

She started drying the pan and turned to see him. It was so stupid, the pleasure she had watching him eat. Especially when he wasn't wearing a shirt. That body of his… and those eyes!

"What are you staring at?"

Ah, Spanish at last!

"Temptation," she answered. "Delicious, devilish temptation."

He shook his head and swallowed another forkful. Isabel sighed.

"I guess I should get ready for a few hours waiting on a chair. What about you? Are you going for a stroll in the city or will you be watching TV?"

Because he had been spending a lot of time inside, going over Portuguese TV shows so as to learn the language. Isabel suspected he might be repeating their lines, which explained why he wanted to be alone in the house. At least that was how he practised whatever expressions she taught him. Of course she had realised he rarely took her corrections in stride. Only if they were in between romps and he was in a particularly good mood. TV shows don't correct you.

"Yeah, something like that. I'll meet you at the Citizen's House at midday and we'll have lunch."

"Sounds good to me. Do you want to go somewhere in the afternoon?"

Victor finished off and stood up.

"Wherever you want to go. Now hurry up: I'll walk you to the place."

Isabel hesitated but then went for it: "Including a jewelery?"

That stopped him in his tracks.

"What?"

"I don't feel comfortable walking around without at least a commitment ring. I was thinking you could choose something that you think is appropriate. Nothing extravagant; no gems or anything like that. Just a gold band, really."

The man frowned.

"Why do you want a… _commitment_ ring? What, like an engagement ring?"

More like a wedding band lookalike but it was better not to be too obvious. Victor was not a relationship-person and mentioning marriage, even if only make-belief, might have the wrong effect.

"Look, when a woman has no rings, she's in the market. You can't blame any guy for hitting on me or flirting or anything if I don't have a ring. If I have one, especially one that looks like an ad for a serious commitment, then I'm off the market and any guy that makes a move is a jerk and is in the wrong. Feel free to punch them toothless."

"Ok. So… if it looks like you're engaged…"

Victor looked at her thoughtfully, which she didn't think bode well, so she excused herself and got dressed. Her movement had a beneficial effect, since the man followed her lead and got ready to leave too.

As they walked down the narrow, winding streets of the historic part of the city, he snaked a possessive arm over her shoulders and greeted every person that looked their way with a perfect Portuguese accent. Isabel slid a hand into one of his jeans' back pockets and relaxed. That's how they usually walked around, like a freshly-married couple. She never felt nervous with crowds in Portugal. It was as if all the bad things that had happened in the recent past couldn't follow her here. Nevertheless, being under Victor's protection was still soothing.

"What time's the doctor appointment tomorrow," he asked as they entered the subway train and sat down.

"Ten in the morning."

He nodded.

He always went with her. She knew it was also about the child, that he was also, maybe not excited about it, but interested. Nevertheless, she also knew he didn't want her alone with any man, even if a doctor. He was the jealous type, after all. Still, she wasn't about to complain, especially as she did not want to be alone with any man either and she really didn't want to confess that particular weakness to Victor. She wanted him to think she'd gotten completely over the… the situation.

In fact, she hoped he always checked doctor appointment dates with her before scheduling his own journeys. He still had to work on the documents for their cover, not to mention he had a career he couldn't keep on ignoring forever. And what if a job went wrong and he had to stay away for longer than expected? Just the thought of undergoing a medical examination all on her own made her…

"You're ok?"

Isabel started and hurried a cheerful smile on.

"I'm fine! Why do you ask?"

"Nothing," but his arm tightened around her and she leaned her head on his side.

Sometimes she just felt like crying. But she couldn't do that, could she? Not even when he went away. Victor would end up smelling her tears when he returned and she couldn't risk looking even weaker than she already did. The man might have gotten in his head to claim her as his but, once he decided he had no use for a weakling… She was talking about a man that viewed weakness as a sign one isn't worthy of being alive, after all. And even though she had never considered herself weak – _no one_ had ever considered her weak – , in his world of mutant powers and super fighting skills she was at the level of a toddler. Her only strength was getting over the abuse she'd been through. It was being cheerful and happy and willing to treat Victor like a king: fullfilling his whims and avoiding all aggravation. Or as much as possible.

"I'm _perfectly_ fine," she said, forcing up a cheerful smile and tone.

His golden eyes focused on her, alert and resolute, attentive. Isabel wished the subway trip could last forever.

"Perfectly fine."

* * *

 _I know, this one was very short and I apologise. It is, however the cornerstone for much of Isabel's attitudes in the future._

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	21. Lisbon: Till death do us part

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **21\. Lisbon: Till death do us part**

Mariana was neither a café nor a restaurant. Once upon a time, it had been a tavern and although it had swapped the wine caskets for draft beer fonts, it had never fully morphed into one of those snackbars that sprouted everywhere in Lisbon's streets, sutffed with cakes and pastry of all flavours and selling a wide variety of strong coffees which Portuguese people drank as if it had no punch at all.

Creed didn't exactly dislike the place: quiet and discret, it had no illusions of grandeur and catered solely for the neighbourhood. It was also two minutes from the tiny flat he had rented.

One of its greatest faults was not actually being a restaurant. Portuguese snackbars served meals but, unlike restaurants, their menu was somewhat limited. Mariana, however, had restricted its menu to a plate of steak with chips, rice, salad and a fried egg. Sure, there was always a different type of soup, and you could actually choose between chocolate mousse and rice pudding for dessert most of the days. At least at lunch time you could. But that was it. Snacks were more plentiful, whether it was meat pastries or codfish and meat rolls, and some of the older people seemed to enjoy a large bowl of soup and a couple of those rolls for dinner rather than a proper meal.

A minor fault was its music. Apparently – Isabel had gotten the whole story from the current owner, Dona Lúcia, on their first visit – Mariana had been opened over eighty years before under the name Lopes. But then Lopes's wife had died and he'd renamed the place after her. Anyway, this Lopes guy had been a guitar player and plenty of his friends had either played or sung or both. Fado, obviously. No famous singer or player had ever surfaced there, but the tradition had stuck and, to this day, minor would-be fado players and singers graced the place with their so-called music. They were mostly old men who performed for the fun of it and for a few free drinks, and they weren't exactly bad. A couple of the guitar players were actually good. But have you heard Fado? It's the most depressing thing in the world, in lyrics, melody and sorrowful sighs. Seriously, it gave him headaches.

The only reason Creed counted it as minor was because Isabel raved over the place. One of her grandparents had apparently been part of a group of guitar players and they had spent most of their days in an actual tavern, playing and drinking much like the performers at Mariana's. And she loved listening to Fado, although Creed couldn't fathom why.

The thing was, the moment she had visited the place, she had stopped nagging him about spending the evenings somewhere else in Lisbon. Socialising, she said, having fun. No Portuguese person stays home after dinner and, if they had to blend in for their cover, then they simply _had_ to spend the night hopping around. Didn't she realise that, being pregnant, she should avoid staying up late at night, especially in the middle of crowds? No, obviously not. It made no difference that she was only nine weeks along and the pregnancy wasn't yet visible. It made no difference it was still not certain whether she could take the pregnancy full term. Suppose she did! The first three months are crucial to a baby's development. She should exercise lightly, avoid making big efforts, eat and sleep well, and make sure she wasn't going to catch a cold or something. Sure, Portuguese temperatures were much milder than Canadian ones – that was one of the reasons he'd accepted to bring her to the country, since she was so averse to the northern climate – but that did not mean she could go out every night and face the cool, humid nights. However, coming over to Mariana's for a non-alcoholic drink after dinner and for a couple of songs meant he could easily get her back in the house, safe and early.

For that reason alone, Mariana had become Creed's official favourite place in Lisbon, and Isabel, naturally, was ecstatic that he always chose the place for their evening stroll.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

Creed looked over the rooftops towards the wide river estuary. The afternoon was sunny but not hot, and the flowering bushes that grew all over the trellis of the scenic overlook gave a nice shade.

"Not bad." Isabel sat on a bench and smiled at the view. Creed gave in. "It looks peaceful."

It did. For a capital city, Lisbon was the least busy place he'd ever been to, tourists aside. At least the historical centre. The fact that the scenic overview was deserted in the early afternoon just added to the peacefulness. The woman nodded in agreement and sighed. After a moment she got up and leaned on one of the trellis posts, next to him.

"So, what have you decided? Do you want to buy me the ring or shall I do it?"

"I already have it," Creed said, and he got the little box out of the pocket. "There was a jewelery near the Citizen House and I figured why delay the thing."

Isabel chuckled.

"That's what I like about you. You naver leave for tomorrow what can be done today."

She opened the box and giggled at the slim gold band with some light engraving and a small stone.

"It's beautiful! Everyone will think we're engaged with this."

"Everyone will _know_ we're engaged," Creed said, closing the box before she could take it out, which had her frowning.

"You'll have to try it on because I didn't know the size of your finger, so it'll probably have to be changed for another or adjusted or something."

"Well, then… I can try it on now and we'll go to the shop if it doesn't fit."

But Creed shook his head.

"I'll be giving it to you, tonight, over dinner at Mariana's." Isabel's smile died a bit. "I'm going to propose, publicly, so the whole neighbourhood will know about it tomorrow."

With all the gossiping that went on in the area, everyone would know by midnight. Isabel didn't react though. She just stood there staring at him.

"All you have to do is look real happy and say yes."

The woman's face remained a blank.

"But… propose like… like… we'll say we're getting married somewhere else?"

"What? No! Propose as in getting married as soon as possible."

Isabel shook her head.

"Marry as in… _actually_ marry? For _real_?"

Creed growled. A group of tourists walked up the street and pointed at the overlook but carried on.

"Remember when I told you we needed a cover story so your identity could be as airtight as possible?" She nodded. "Marrying, for real, with official documents, gives our cover story a perfect touch."

The woman swallowed and looked about her.

"But… really marry? I mean… I didn't think you… I always thought…"

A couple entered the scenic outlook area and Creed grabbed the woman by an arm and pulled her to its farthest end, lowering his voice.

"What the hell's wrong with ya?" He slipped from Spanish to English. "Ya ain't dumb. Ya understand the logic of what I'm sayin', don't ya?"

"Marriage is something _serious_ ," she whispered back in Portuguese, fiercely for once. "There's a reason most men don't like talking about getting married."

Huh? Did that mean she was just shocked at his ease over the idea of getting married?

"Don't be stupid, woman. I ain't turnin' into no monogamic ass. It's just fer our cover story."

"But it's for _life_!"

Creed rolled his eyes and held back his answer until the couple had walked away.

" 'Course it's fer life! What did ya think? That I was gonna say ya're my woman fer five years an' cut ya free? Ya're mine fer life, marriage or no marriage."

She looked away from him and shook her head. What was wrong with her?

"Thought ya said ya loved me and all that. Don't ya love me enough ta marry me, is that it?"

She glared at him immediately and he grinned. He seldom got glares from her these days. Sometimes he fancied he missed that brazen side of hers.

"Ah, wait! Are ya gettin' commitment issues again? 'Cause I thought ya was only afraid o' fallin' in love. Had no idea ya was against marriage too."

The mockery pricked her out of the uncertainty with a pissed "Fine! We marry. Happy?"

Creed embraced her waist and pulled her to him, kissed her angry lips.

"So don't ferget ta act all surprised tonight, and oh so happy ta say yes."

Isabel shrugged.

"Whatever. I'll go to the Office Registry and ask them what we need to get married."

Registry?

"Ya mean church. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is a catholic country, it won't look right if we don't marry in the church. We need ta blend in."

"You can't have a religious wedding because you're not a catholic," she shot immediately.

Really?

"How the hell d'ya know I ain't a catholic? I could have been raised as one."

Isabel sneered and switched to English.

"You know dat you have meetings wid de priest before you marry, right? He sees immediately you don't know de catolic dotrine."

Meetings, huh? Well, why the hell not!

"Then I'll convert. That'll just make the cover better."

And it was true. The further his Creed-Kredall persona was from his real identity, the better. The woman got incensed though.

"One should marry religiously only when the vows are meaningful before God," she spit in a low, savage voice, back in Portuguese.

Creed had forgotten she was religious. He shook his head.

"Quit naggin', woman. Ya can make yer vows as meaningful as ya want, what's stoppin' ya? 'Sides, ain't religious weddings all about 'till death do us part'? I'm gonna be takin' that way more seriously than any groom these days! 'Cause there's only one way ya'll ever get away from me, and that's dyin'."

That cooled her anger, but she still shook her head, teeth crossly clenched.

"A wedding in church… you have to have family, friends…you can't just…"

Oh, he hadn't thought about it. But it made no difference. In fact, it actually helped his whole plan.

"Well, haven't ya been naggin' me 'bout makin' acquaintances wi' the neighbours? So go ahead an' make friends. Get friendly with every old woman in the area and have 'em all come t'the weddin'. The more, the better! It'll just make the cover story that more solid."

The woman did not seem convinced but she had no more arguments against it. He got the slight impression she might have a hard time pretending to be happy when he proposed so he grabbed a strand of hair and swirled it around his finger.

"Tell ya what: let's go shoppin' so ya can look extra classy tonight, huh? When those old hags start waggin' their tongues about, I want 'em ta say ya looked stunnin'."

She sighed. Then she closed her eyes, groaned and dropped her head against his chest. Now what?

"Hey, don't ya wanna buy a new dress?"

Because she had no evening dresses. Not a single one.

"I hate shopping," she grumbled in English.

That wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Except…

"Ya ain't got no evenin' dresses," he reminded her.

Her body relaxed then, giving up the struggle, and she embraced his waist, her thumbs hooking themselves on his belt, in the back.

"I don't want know."

"I don't care," he corrected, "and shouldn't ya be speakin' in Portuguese? I've told ya before, no English! People have t' connect me ta Spain, not America."

She lifted her face to him and offered a slightly aggravated smile.

"I don't care of de dresses," she repeated. "And you're speaking English too."

"Yeah, well, I got good reasons fer it. And ya do need a dress. I've told ya, I want ya ta impress the whole place."

She let out a hollow laugh and slipped back to Portuguese.

"Don't worry, my love. I'll impress them. I'll impress them so much, even _you_ will be impressed."

Creed frowned and her smile grew wider. Not cheerfully, as she usually did, but with teasing determination. Devilishly.

"I'll make them all envy you. They'll look at you and say you're the luckiest man ever. I promise you."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	22. Lisbon: The Proposal

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

If you'd like to know the soundtrack for this chapter, here are the songs being played and sung:

Nem às paredes confesso, by Amália Rodrigues (Not even to the walls will I confess)

Tudo isto é fado, by Amália Rodrigues (All this is fate/fado)

A Casa da Mariquinhas, by Amália Rodrigues (Mariquinhas's House)

Rua do Capelão, Cuca Roseta's version, which changes part of the original lyrics (Street of the Chapelain)

* * *

 **22\. Lisbon: The Proposal**

Victor had still insisted on a new dress. Since Isabel had promised herself and Our Lady she'd fulfil his every whim (within reason) for as long as she was in Portugal, she had gone shopping for dresses. And new shoes, too. And a set of matching earrings, necklace and bracelet. A gold and rubi set, to be precise. And a gold watch. And make-up, though he'd admitted he'd rather she didn't wear it often. It has a foul taste and creepy smell, he said. But he'd insisted on the bright red lipstick. Bright red lips are always impressive, and he wanted her to astound that homely neighbourhood. At night, though, she had set her foot down.

"If I don't know about the proposal, why am I going to dress up? Besides, people here only dress up for weddings and baptisms or to go out to an expensive restaurant. Never to go to a café next door. It'll be a show of arrogance. It'll have the opposite effect of what you want."

He hadn't been happy.

"Tomorrow night, we can go out to have dinner in a fancy restaurant. I'll wear everything we bought and I'll make sure I'll be seen by as many people as possible. And then we can stop by Mariana's on our return. It'll look more natural."

Victor had frowned.

"How come you didn't think about that earlier?"

Because she'd been too busy trying to hide her annoyance at the drawn out shopping for stuff she didn't really need?

"Sorry… But I'm thinking about it now! Anyway, you said you wanted to propose at Mariana's for greater effect, right? If you took me to a fancy restaurant first, everyone would wonder why you hadn't proposed there."

Again, he hadn't been happy, but he'd listened.

Isabel had ended up putting on some make-up and a more toned down red lipstick. As she looked at herself on the mirror, she found herself a bit nervous.

"How are you going to do it?"

"Do what?" He grumbled. "Aren't you ready yet? It's already later than usual."

Because they usualy went out at about nine and it was now half past.

"The proposal," she said, picking up her handbag. "I'm ready."

He looked her up and down.

"You could have worn the lipstick I got you."

"Tomorrow," she smiled. "I'll look like a queen for you. Well?"

"I'm not going to tell you. You're going to have a hard time looking surprised, so I might as well actually surprise you. At least it will look natural."

Fair enough. Hopefully it was a nice surprise. More than having trouble acting surprised, she'd have trouble acting happy. Marriage is sacred. Victor was just using it as a tool, like one of those fake documents. It revolted her inside. But at the same time, she understood his logic. Adding real documents to fake ones would make her new identity more secure and she did want her new identity to be as secure as possible. If anyone were to ever look into her past, she didn't want anyone suspecting she was… an alien, like Victor had put it once.

And, like Victor had told her, she could be as honest in her vows as she wanted. She would not be the one mocking the sacred institution; he would. It still bothered her, though. She'd pray a penance, she decided. God and Our Lady knew she did not mean any disrespect, but she'd still give herself some sort of penance for participating in his mockery.

The moment they entered the old tabern, Isabel knew everyone was aware of what was going to happen. It was on everyone's faces, from Dona Lúcia's to the guitar players' and the fado singer's, including at least half the clientelle's. She felt sick. Victor must have told them, though she couldn't fathom why. God, this was going to be a disaster.

She tried to smile naturally, asking for her usual bottle of juice, and sat down. Would Victor kneel in a traditional proposal? She hoped not. It'd look much too corny and the man would never forgive her if she got a sudden attack of laughter.

She glanced sideways at him as she sipped some juice from the glass. He didn't look nervous. Why should he? He wasn't really proposing. In his head, he was just… acquiring some more documents to prove their alter-egos were real people. Likewise, why should she be nervous? Hadn't he said she belonged to him for life? In his head, she was bound more tighly to him than in any marriage. Officially marrying meant very little next to that.

As Isabel struggled to focus on her drink and not notice glances and nosey grins around her, she settled on why she was nervous. She didn't want him publicly declaring himself to her. Even if it was a lie, or maybe because it was a lie? No, she decided. Even if he loved her, she'd still he'd rather not propose in public, and especially not as a surprise. Private matters are done in private and then announced, not...

Santos and Carlos, two of the guitarrists that spent more time around, sat down at the table next to Isabel and Victor's. Her heart skipped a beat. They always played at the end of the café, next to the farthest end of the bar. He had _not_ arranged a serenade!

Old Antunes, with his rough voice, brought his usual brandy and set it on the table.

God! He had arranged a serenade. This was not happening. How could the man go for something that corny?

"Many people remember the first fado they've ever heard," Antunes proclaimed. He always liked to introduce whatever he sang.

"Look happy," Victor growled at her ear and she jumped a bit on the chair. " _Happy_."

Right. Smile.

"It goes deep into your soul and it seduces you into the world of fado."

This was so embarrassing! Please, God, don't let him kneel in front of her.

"And this one seduced a man for much more than just the song."

"Don't think of liking me if I don't ask you to."

She recognised the song immediately. She had sang it back in Wausau and Victor had come into her room and...

"I mean every word, because I don't want to break your heart."

She had said it was one of her favourite love songs. Was that why he'd chosen it? He had remembered…

"Of whom I like, not even to the walls will I confess; and I'll even bet that I like no one."

Those lines could have been sung by the man himself. He might not love her, and of course he didn't, but even if he loved someone – anyone – he would never admit it, not even to himself. Had he thought about the lyrics' meaning?

Isabel jumped when his arm snaked around her shoulders, bringing her closer to him.

"Surprised?"

Shocked and dumbfounded was more like it. She should be smiling! She turned her face to him and forced a smile.

"Very much."

"If I like you or not, that's my own business,

even if you think

that you'll convince me,

I'll tell you nothing."

Isabel grabbed his arm, so protectively over her. Possessive. There was a stupid urge to cry that had her shake her head and lean back onto his body, inviting him to hold her with both arms.

"You can smile

You can lie,

You can cry too

Whom I like

Not even to the walls will I confess."

As the song finished, Isabel turned to Victor, smiling as much as she could and hoping he wouldn't notice her eyes were getting wet. She had meant to speak but then decided against it and simply kissed him. Who needs words anyway? She closed her eyes hard, blocking away all the people enjoying the show and kissed him demandingly.

When he broke it up, she could feel her cheeks and her eyes burning, though for different reasons.

This was it.

She saw him get the ring box from his pocket, almost in slow-motion, and prayed fervently that he did not kneel. She could almost hear him spout a jarring 'will you make me the happiest blah blah'.

He held the box in front of her and opened it.

This - was - it.

She held her breath, eyes glued to the ring. Please, don't kneel.

"Marry me."

Isabel looked up and let out something that sounded like a mixed cough and laugh. She put her hand on her mouth immediately. Do _not_ laugh! He hadn't been capable of proposing with a request. Instead, it had come out as an order. That was so like him! God, she was going to start laughing.

"Yes," she blurted out in order to disguise the laughter. No other words came up so she just insisted. "Yes, yes, yes!"

Then she kissed him. And the whole room burst into applause, which made her want to crawl into a hole and vanish. Instead, Victor let go of her, and everyone came forth to congratulate them.

"Oh, my God!" She whizzed, face burning in embarrassment. "I did not expect _this_! I have no words! No words…"

It didn't end. The smiles, the congratulations, the wishes, the… She felt like she was drowning. And she still had to impress the whole room. The whole neighbourhood! Yes, it was definitely time to take control of this show. She got up and called out to Dona Lúcia to bring drinks, then she turned to the musicians, at the table next to her.

"Master Antunes, you'll forgive me, but I was proposed to with a fado, and I shall answer with one, and in my own voice. Santos, Carlos, play for me."

* * *

Was that what the woman thought meant looking surprised and happy? Laughing? Really? He had made a hell of an effort to go through the corniest, most ridiculous thing he'd ever done in his whole life, and she had decided that laughing was the appropriate reaction.

Good thing it had apparently looked natural.

The way the woman got up, though, ordering singer and players about and clearing the people away so she could 'answer in song', whatever that was supposed to mean, gave him space to breathe.

Creed had not really predicted that everyone would crowd them with congratulations. He had just wanted to impress into the community's memory the presence in their midst of the foreign Creed-Kredall couple. Isabel was doing a great job creating an oral picture of their past history, making their alter-egos become real people, but unless there was a memorable event, that history would eventually be forgotten. If Creed was going through all this hassle, though, he wanted their stop in that neighbourhood to stay in the locals' memories for as long as possible. Years, preferably. A splashy proposal had seemed to fit the bill so perfectly… until he had found himself actually going through it.

Right now, he wanted to get out, but even he could tell it would look rushed. He was almost glad when people turned their attention to Isabel's instructions to the musicians and he could breathe more at ease.

The guitars started and Creed tried to relax. Isabel turned to him and closed her eyes, breathed in deeply. Then she opened her eyes and very nearly sang straight at him, as focused as nothing else existed around her.

"You asked me the other day," she sang and Creed could tell she was not going to hold back. "If I knew what was fate."

Her voice boomed in the room and he remembered that night in a motel, when she'd sang an Evanescence song, he couldn't recall which right now. But he remembered very clearly that she had held back and that he'd guessed she'd be able to raise the dead if she ever let it boom out.

Old man Antunes was cherished by the locals, even Creed could see that, but his voice was harsh and worn out. People showed him enough respect, when he sang, to at least lower their voices, but they did not interrupt any conversations. As Isabel lifted her voice, though, deep and clear, there was absolute silence.

"Love, jealousy, ashes and fire, pain and sin," her voice soared, and the audience almost held their colective breath. "All this exists, all this is sad, all this is fate."

Creed glanced about him. Absolute silence, absolute attention; surprise etched on every expression. The woman had been right on one thing: he was impressed.

"If you want to be my lord," Creed returned his attention to the woman. She was looking straight at him. "And have me always by your side…"

This song had been chosen very carefully, he decided. Blast the woman and her hidden messages. He listened intently.

"…don't talk only love to me

talk to me also about fate

because fate is my punishment

it was born solely to make me lose my way

fate is all I sing

and all else I can't speak of."

As the woman went over the chorus, he frowned. What was that supposed to mean?

When she shut up and the guitars sounded their last notes, the public sprang to their feet, clapping and calling her 'fadista' with heated excitement. At the door, someone was yelling for a neighbour or other to come down and come quick. Old man Antunes came over and clasped her hands, asking why she hadn't said something earlier.

"What a voice, my child! What a voice!"

It made him feel uneasy. Isabel, though, rode the wave of roaring enthusiasm as if it were nothing special.

"I used to sing with my godfather, but that was a lifetime ago," she shrugged with a dismissive smile. "Say, shall we give pain something to drink?"

In less than five seconds, the guitars had resumed their craft and the voices were hushed.

This time, she set up a fast, upbeat pace. Too fast for him to follow. He could tell she was pronouncing each word clearly, but she shot through them at such a speed that Creed could only catch snippets of meaning. It was about someone's house that had been transformed into something else. He didn't understand the woman's request until the very end, when the melody slowed down.

"For giving pain something to drink is the best thing to do

It's what Mariquinhas always said."

Again, the public – which had increased immensely, the entire neighbourhood must be trying to cram into the small café – responded with eager applause and cheer. Creed studied the crowd. Some faces were clearly surprised and impressed, even elated by the performance. Some were simply curious. And at least two sets of eyes were more interested in what they saw than what they heard.

Creed breathed out and tried not to scowl. Isabel was apparently satisfied, as she requested the old singer to sing something and glided towards him with the most delighted smile possible. The moment she landed on the chair, she was leaning on his shoulder and whispering at his ear.

"Sorry, but being this close together is what looks more natural after your proposal."

Creed managed a grin, his attention half on those lewd faces, and embraced her waist possessively, pulled her real close. He could feel her heartbeat speed up and, even under the harsh, white lights of the place, he could see her blush.

"Yes, I know."

He kissed her. Up until tonight, he'd never kissed her in public but he didn't act shy about it, kissing her hard and long for all to see. Especially those lecherous asses he was going to do his best to track down and teach a proper lesson. Still his heart beat uneasily fast. It was a show. A stupid front or cover or whatever he wanted to call it. But he was still publicising a weakness. He was still waving to the crowd a supposedly heartfelt, emotional attachment. He was practically begging for someone to come and try something. Soft spot right here: aim and hit hard.

When he broke the kiss, he couldn't even fake a grin. He surreptitiously scanned the crowd for any sign of… of what? They were in a god forsaken hole. Who was going to try and attack him? No signs of scorn. Perhaps a few dismissive grins. Definitely some judging comments doing the rounds of the nosey women. And where were the asses in need of learning to keep their eyes to themselves? Maybe they'd realised they had no business there.

Isabel seemed embarrassed too, as she lowered her eyes and aborted a head movement to check the audiende, much as he'd been doing.

"So," he decided to change the topic, as the old man croaked next to them, "was that a message you were sending me?"

Because he was still wondering. She laughed, naughtily, and whispered back a 'maybe'.

"O que é fado?"

Creed wasn't sure how to understand the question. The Portuguese word 'fado' can mean the song or it can mean fate, so was she asking 'what is fado' or 'what is fate'?

"It's depressing music."

She laughed again and shook her head.

"It is two things: it is what you can't control in your life and it is the music about what you can't control in your life."

He nodded but she must have thought he wasn't following her drift.

"To be born a man or a woman, mutant or not mutant, that is fate. To drive carefully and and still end up in a car crash because a jerk is drunk driving. To fall in love with the wrong person." Ha! That was directed at him. Or her. She was the one in love with him after all. "Fate is a cross that gets bigger and heavier as you live and that you must always carry on your shoulders."

Cheerful philosophy. No wonder the lyrics needed therapy.

"But fate is also good things. It's to be born in a good family, to loving parents. It's to have your car destroyed in a crash and come out unhurt. It's to fall in love with the right person."

"If song and fate are the same, how come you sang only sad stuff."

She rolled her eyes.

"Because when you sing, you scare away your sorrows, so it's important you sing all your sorrows away. Then you can focus on the good things. Besides, I sang a cheerful one. You just chose to ignore it and focus on the unhappy one. Just like songs usually do."

Fair enough. However, what he really wanted to know was what she had meant with her 'maybe' message.

"So, if I want to be your lord and master…"

She sneered and straightened up.

"Forget the 'talk love' part. You don't love me, and my love for you is stupid and irrational." Her face became grave then, earnest. "Fate, however, is real. And fado is in my soul, it's in my blood. When I was studying music and I sang in public, I always sang songs that were chosen to provoke the right effects and emotions in the audience. Or I sang what the audience wanted to hear. You must sing to satisfy your audience, you know. But when I sing fado, I sing for me. That's why I could never become a professional fado singer. I sing _my_ sorrows, _my_ anger, _my_ losses. I sing one song or twenty. When and where I feel like it. The public… it may or may not exist. They mean nothing. They either feel my emotions and relive their own or… whatever! I don't care. I care only about _me_ when I sing fado. And if you can't accept that part of me – that I sing and do what I want when I want and how I want – I'll never really belong to you."

He cocked an eyebrow. Was she trying to say she was going to be out here singing every evening from now on and that he better not say a word? For those lewd asses eating her up with their eyes? She chuckled suddenly.

"I'll sing some songs for you too. I mean, really sing just _for_ you. Like that one with the 'if you want to be my master' line."

He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her closer, his face next to her ear so no one would notice his half snarl.

"If ya think I'll let ya whore yerself singin' out here every freakin' night, ya better think again, woman."

"You prefer dat I sing only in de house, is?" She asked in English, voice smooth and barely audible. "But I want dat everyone envies you. How can I impress everyone and make de people think you are de most lucky man in de world? Because dey think dat, when I get up and sing to you."

Creed hesitated. She had a point… but was it really important? She could very well impress by simply dressing up. Although, no, that wouldn't work either. He remembered those two jerks. They'd probably prefer it.

"I sing only one or two songs," she insisted. "And only happy songs. And I say to everyone is only to you. Because you make me so happy dat I only want to sing."

She pulled her body back, away from him, and offered a 'pretty please' smile.

"Can I at least finish the evening with a last song?" She asked, back in Portuguese but still in a whisper. "This one is _all_ for you, I promise. I've even changed the lyrics. When you see me with my eyes closed, that's me forgetting everyone and focusing only on how I feel about you. Every word I'll be singing, it'll be exactly, _exactly_ how I feel about you. So, please, just this last one. Can I?"

His periferial vision warned him there were a few people watching them and, right now, they probably didn't seem that much freshly engaged. Leaving right there and then would probably fuel an idea of early disagreement and _that_ he did not want. So he kissed her, just a peck this time, and told her to go on.

"One last song," he stressed. "We have much to talk back in the house."

Including how she wasn't going to morph into a performer.

"Antunes is still singing. Let me tell you about the lyrics."

He didn't want to, but what else could he do if not endure the uncalled for explanation?

"It's supposedly a famous fado singer talking to the street where she lives, saying that if her lover arrives early, she'll kiss the cobblestones he steps on. She was a gypsy, the singer. Severa. The most famous female fadista of all times! And her lover is a gypsy man, too. Obviously, I'll be singing for myself, not her; and I'll change the line where the gypsy lover is mentioned. She also… oh…"

The old man had finished, saving Creed from more ridiculous explanations. Isabel quickly got up and called for Dona Lúcia to bring the musicians something to wet their throats. She wasn't authoritarian in the way she addressed the people, but she did show an unusual confidence, making requests as if they were wishes to be naturally and promptly obeyed.

Creed watched as she gave the players instructions. She really should show that type of confidence more often.

Then she breathed out and closed her eyes, laid a hand on the back of an empty chair. When she opened them again, it was as if she was seeing through the people and the walls. Her expression, so cheerful a mere moment ago, was now solemn and a bit… how could he describe it? Desillusioned, maybe. Well, wait till he told her she wasn't singing in public again.

Ever since he'd started coming to Mariana's, every fado song had started with the guitars. Isabel, on the other hand, let out a deep shout for silence and started alone. In the hushed café, her voice sent an unexpected shiver up his spine and he frowned at the effect.

"Oh Street of the Chapelain, covered in rosmaninho," whatever that was supposed to be.

Talking to the street indeed! Stupid lyrics. The woman repeated each pair of lines twice and, although Creed's mind quipped that was going to make the piece longer than the absolutely necessary, it further underlined the longing that reverberated in her voice, alone in the silence.

"If my love comes home early," and there was an undertone of almost religious devotion in the way she sang the vow, each sylable carefully pronunced, "I'll kiss the coblestones he steps on on his way."

One of the guitars started playing then, but only a few notes resounding almost lonely, eerily, in between her words.

It did create an impressive effect in the audience.

As she repeated the line, drawing out 'my love' and 'early', smiling ever so gently as she promised to kiss each stepped on cobblestone, she shook her head almost coyly, like a silly girl admitting to a dumb crush. For a moment, that devotion he'd heard before was less religious, more earthly, pleasant.

"I have had my fate set," Isabel frowned slightly at the settling of her destiny, but then her face and voice softened, "since the moment I saw you."

Each syllable so delicately caressed, her gaze changing fleetingly to focus on him as she delivered the last word. It made the song more personal. The second time she said the line, he actually enjoyed it.

"Oh my beloved soldier,

to live embracing fate,

to die embracing you."

It's what he always said: these lyrics needed therapy. But the devotion in her voice, in her expression… that type of adoration dedicated solely to him, that was something that impressed him. He could not take his eyes off her face. Riveting.

The guitar struck up a solo and she remained gazing at him, almost in a trance of longing. How eery! No one had ever looked at him that way, with such earnest loyalty and heart-felt reverence. Hell, no one had ever looked at him with a tenth of that loyalty and reverence. Creed frowned. No one had ever looked at him with any type of loyalty and reverence.

"Oh my beloved soldier," she resumed singing with soulful intensity, her burning eyes riveted on his, and Creed couldn't have looked away even if he'd wanted to.

"To live embracing fate," she offered a slight grimace of pain, and he could have embraced her soothingly.

"To die," her face almost lit up with faint joy, "embracing… you."

Once more, standing ovation. This time, though, Creed admitted to himself it was well deserved. Better yet, the ovation wasn't big enough to reach what she deserved. That had been a haunting performance the woman had given and the assholes should be kissing the ground she walked on. She had been spot on: you could taste the strength of her love and devotion to him; you could feel it resounding in your guts. It was beyond powerful!

And, as sick and dreary as both lyrics and melody might be, they were perfect. To live and die in his arms… He liked the sound of it. He truly did.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	23. Lisbon: The Second Fight

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

I've just realised I didn't upload this chapter last Sunday properly, even though I did update the summary. I apologise for the mix-up.

I'll just upload this one and then the one due today.

* * *

 **23\. Lisbon: The Second Fight**

"Ya ain't goin' back t'singin' in that joint."

Isabel took a deep breath and nodded slowly.

"You remember what I told you," she said in Portuguese. "Sing is…"

"I know. It's in yer blood. Sing all ya want. Here, in the house, fer me alone an' no one else."

From the way she pulled her hair back and took another deep breath, she was getting pissed, but Creed couldn't care if she was. Still, she took her time before she answered in a slightly dispassionate voice.

"You said you wanted me to impress."

"By dressin' up," he snarled, always careful not to raise his voice in that cardboard walled place.

It made no nevermind that those asses would have enjoyed the dress and its deep, back revealing cut even more than the conservative dress and cardigan ensemble. He had not told her to make herself into a singing celebrity; he'd told her to dress up.

The woman betrayed a gesture of angry impatience but then she curbed herself and breathed out.

"Expensive dresses for showing off," she carried on with that cool tone and manner that obviously screamed anger, "would impress in the wrong way. People would see me as stuck up and arrogant, and they would despise me – and _you_ – for that. Singing, like I did, made a powerful impression that brings admiration, not disdain."

An idea started brewing in Creed's mind and he frowned, not yet sure of it.

"Ya're still not singin' in public again."

The woman breathed in deeply again, breathed out slowly, taking her time to think her words… no, to think her move.

"People are going to ask why I don't sing anymore."

Check-mate. That's what she was thinking, wasn't it?

"Ya think I ain't noticed ya've been tryin' t'manipulate me?"

Ever since she'd mentioned she wanted to come to Portugal, actually. With all her cool, rational reasons and what-not.

"Ok, enough of this shit!" Her voice was icy but passionate and the strength of the unexpected Portuguese cuss word made him snarl in surprise. "I have never manipulated you. Do you think I'm a stupid shithead who doesn't know that manipulating someone like you is a death sentence?"

She was that close to turn her dirty tongue on him, he decided, and pregnant or not, she'd regret it.

"Watch it, woman," he warned.

"What, my tongue?" She hissed, the effect much stronger than if she had yelled. "It offends you, does it? Tough. That's how I speak when I'm beside myself with anger. Like a fucking fieldworker."

It was going to hell, the whole conversation. He grabbed her by an arm and shook her a bit, gently because of his baby, those eyes wonderfully ablaze.

"That's enough!"

But she would not be stopped.

"The only manipulation is when I bite my own tongue and think twice to make sure I talk and behave like a well-brought up lady even when I'm angry. Because that was how I was raised. To act like a proper lady. And you make me _so_ mad…"

She stopped and breathed in, shaking. Creed decided she had gotten her anger under control, even if she was still glaring.

"I've warned ya," he growled under his breath before he let go of her. "Watch it."

His senses told him she wasn't faking her anger, which didn't seem to support his belief she'd been manipulating him. But then the woman turned her back on him and took a couple of steps, breathed out. She was getting herself under control. Again, she was planning her next move.

"Don't you _ever_ accuse me of manipulating you again." She glared at him. "I gave myself to you. I agreed to live where the fuck… Sorry. Where you want. I am ready to give up everything I love for you. Do I ask you to do things I want? Yes. Manipulate? No. I give you reasons. And then you listen and decide if those reasons are worthy, and _then_ you say yes or no. And I have to live with your decision. That's how big my sacrifice is. I give up all fucking control over my own life. Do you have any idea how much that goes against everything I am? But I promised, so I do it. _For you_. And you have the nerve…"

She turned her back on him again and Creed reconsidered his gut feeling. Maybe he had misread her actions. But still…

"That list o' houses ya fixed up t'show me," he reminded her. "Ya cooked that up so I'd get ya a house where _you_ wanted."

He hadn't misread that. Or better yet, he wasn't misremembering it.

"I asked you questions, remember? Yes, I wanted to live in a place like this, but this type of place matches what you said we needed for our cover story. So I joined what _I_ wanted to what _you_ wanted. You call that manipulation? I don't. Manipulation is when you tell lies or half-truths to convince a person they want something they don't. I do the opposite. I ask you what you want and then I see if I can connect it to what I want, so we are both happy."

Creed frowned and went over her presentation of the places.

"Ya mean ta tell me there's no other place in Lisbon where we could have been near hospitals an' docs with a low crime rate?"

"And _blend in_ ," she added. "Yes. I believe, and I swear it before God and the Virgin Mary, that this type of neighbourhood is the best match to all your specifications. Does it happen to be where I feel at home? Yes. I call it killing two birds with one stone."

Creed took it in.

Maybe he had overreacted where it came to house choosing. But then there was tonight.

"Ya played yer hand so that ya'd end up singin', showin' off to everyone, knowin' people would find it strange if ya never sang again. Just so I couldn't simply forbid ya from singin' without messin' up our cover story."

The woman raised her head.

"I waited," she said, "for the right time to ask you if I could sing. You said you wanted me to impress. I know no better way. I effectively won over half the neighbourhood. Another two weeks, and I win over the other half. Then you can be pleased that they have accepted us as part of their community. We will have blended in. We will be remembered. Like _you_ wanted."

She kept presenting everything as if she had been trying to make him happy, but he knew it wasn't so. She had been trying to make herself happy.

Only she wasn't lying.

"Ya knew I wouldn't want ya singin' in public," he pointed out. She _had_ manipulated the situation so he couldn't stop her from doing it - he wasn't imagining that.

The woman's lower lip quivered for a moment, but then she pressed her lips tight.

"I thought you like it," she said in English, barely a whisper through clenched teeth. "I thought… you listen and you hear… Every word is true. Live wid you, fall in love, dat was my fate. I had no control off dat. You think I want to give up control off my life? But is like de song: I accept and embrace all de bad things, and I live wid dem for all my life. Oh, Victor, you think I lie and manipulate when I say I am happy every time you are wid me? I adore be wid you, I adore talk wid you, I adore… You know how de song says dat I lost control of my life in de hour I saw you? Dat is so true! And I accept all de bad and good things, and I am happy if I can die in your arms. Just like de song. Is why I choosed dat song. And I really, really thought dat you… you hear me sing, you hear me tell de entire world I love you and I want be wid you until I die… I thought you were going to like dat. I telling everyone dat I belong to you. Body and… How you say alma in English?"

Body and soul, huh?

He didn't believe it. He might not be able to smell the slightest semblance of a lie on her but…

"Manipulate," she said in English. Why was she always going back to English? She could barely make herself clear in that language! "Is make someone want something dat he don't want. I don't do dat. I tell you dat I want something, and I tell you why I want it and I try convince you dat… dat is not so bad. I don't want dat you want what I want. I only want dat you say, for example, 'I think is stupid but ok, I give you permission but only because you are going to do my every wish in payment'. Dat is _not_ manipulate."

 _Convincing_ him? It sounded more like trying to mellow him. So she had waited for the right time to do what she wanted instead of manipulating it into happening. She had still been less than forthwright. She had been waiting for him to be mellowed and more permissive. He did not call that honesty.

"You know I feel every word off dat song, no?"

Creed growled to himself that she was manipulating him again. Only she was being truthful. And her performance… he had always said you could see her every feeling in those expressive eyes of hers. Singing the way she had took the expression 'baring of one's soul' to a whole new level. Not to mention she had created a lasting impression on the neighbourhood. A little too much, even.

But she was still trying to manipulate him, he insisted.

"All this crap, if I do stuff that makes ya happy, ya'll go double out of yer way t'make me extra happy, that's manipulatin' too. I ain't puttin' up with it."

Her shoulders slumped slightly, but then she took a deep breath and straightened herself.

"I'm not a saint," she said, back to Portuguese. "When I am happy, I want to make people happy around me. Especially you. I want to be the only person that can make you feel perfectly happy. When I'm annoyed, or aggravated, it's very difficult to force myself to make anyone happy. Especially for the person that is anoying me or aggravating me. I'm sorry but that's the truth."

But it was still manipulating. It had to be!

Creed growled. Manipulation or not, the woman was right about one thing: if she never sang again, it would look suspicious to the whole neighbourhood. Especially because someone was bound to have picked up their fight, even if they were speaking as low as an argument allowed for.

"One song an evenin'," he told her. "And only if they asks ya ta sing."

She nodded, solemnly. Not a shadow of a would-be smile.

"I promise you."

"And ya only sing that last one. The one where ya die in my arms."

She opened her eyes in shocked surprise.

"But it's not even one of the most typical or common! Everyone will think me crazy! I sang three different songs today; if I only stick to one from now on…"

"I don't give a damn what everyone thinks!"

Only he had to! Why the hell had he had the brilliant idea of coming to Lisbon? Damn the woman and the blasted neighbourhood! What he needed was to find another place near doctors and a hospital where he didn't have to put up with no neighbours and no 'what will people think'. Blending in in a community was much easier said than done. And at a stupid price of lack of privacy and freedom.

"Okay," she shrugged, even if he could see and hear her angry unwillingness burning through it. "It'll be as you want. I promised, so I'll do what you want. _Exactly_ the way you want it."

"Good!"

She held his gaze haughtily. Damn the aggravating ass! Snarling, he grabbed her by an arm and pulled her roughly to him.

"Ya get inside that dum' skull of yers that ya're _mine_ , got it? Ya're _my_ woman and I ain't gonna have no ass eatin' ya wi'their eyes when ya're out there singin'."

The woman frowned.

"Who? Zézé and his friends? I've already dealt with them!"

That took him by surprise.

"You _what_?"

The woman's frown morphed into cautious thoughtfulness. There: measuring her words so as to mellow him. It was always the same!

"First of all, I'm not sure if you know this but it's perfectly natural for a guy to whistle at a woman walking by or to call out to her with a nice 'you're breaking my heart' or 'what a beauty' or something like that."

Creed breathed in to control his sky-rocketing anger.

"It does not happen every day, nor every week, not even every month! But it happens and it's normal, ok? It's _normal_."

"And when exactly were ya plannin' ta tell me 'bout this' 'normal'?" He hissed, telling himself he couldn't start a blasted scandal and ruin all his months of hard-work.

"It's normal," she repeated in a supposedly soothing tone. "I didn't even think about it until now, when you mentioned those guys and… That's when it occurred to me it might not be normal in the States."

Oh, she was used to being hit on, was she? It was perfectly normal!

"Listen, this isn't like the people you… the dangerous people you are used to, ok? I grew up with this. If I am alone and guys only make nice comments and stuff, no problem. I just ignore them and they go away and that's it."

So basically, a guy could hit on her all he wanted and live to try again for as long as he wasn't coarse. That was basically it! He couldn't freaking believe this!

"If I am with my boyfriend, or if they know me and know I'm in a relationship, and they say something… they want a beating, basically. And then if a guy says something less nice, like… 'I wish I could get in your pants' or 'come here and do whatever', or something like that, then it's different. When I was seventeen, I broke an umbrella on a man who talked to me like that."

Uh… she'd done what?

"Ya're fuckin' stupid? Ya can't throw a punch ta save yer life and ya picked up a fight with a grown man? He could'ave overpowered ya an' done anythin' he wanted!"

The woman shook her head dismissively.

"Of course he wouldn't fight back! Everyone in the street saw him provoke me. If he'd fought back, I'd have screamed and he'd have gotten the worst beating in his life. We were in the middle of a street, cafés everywhere. Not to mention I'd have told my grandparents and my uncles and they'd have gone out to set him straight."

Safety net. That's why she felt confident facing up people here. She knew the general public would come to her aid.

"An' those assholes, why didn't ya tell me 'bout them?"

"Because they're done with! Listen, when you went to Canada, I went to the grocery as usual, and one day he was on the street and said something stupid. He didn't step the line but… I didn't like it. That's also a bit why I said I wanted the ring. It makes our relationship more official."

It sure as hell was official now.

"So, I got to the grocery and asked Dona Maria Ana about him. She told me _everything_. If he ever acts up and you want to have a word with him, I can tell you exactly when and where to find him. The thing is, he lives here in the neighbourhood and since everyone already knows about the Blonde Spanish, I figured he should know about you and me, which meant he shouldn't be talking to me like that. So I told Dona Maria Ana I was not going to put up with that kind of thing and that he better not hit on me again."

Damn the woman and her beating about the bush.

"Get t'the point already."

"Ok. When I came back, he had two friends with him, everyone drinking beer, and he did it again. So I went up to him and I told him almost these exact words: You've heard about that tall, muscled Spanish guy who's living here? I live with him. If you guys want your faces broken to pieces, talk to him directly. Because if you ever talk to me, you're going to regret it on the spot. And then I'll ask Victor to make sure he gets your little cocks well stuffed up your asses. Got it? And he never opened his mouth again to me. But I've already talked to Dona Maria Ana, and to Dona Lúcia, because whatever they know the rest of the neighbourhood will soon know, that those guys will seriously regret it if they hit on me again. Everyone knows. If something happens, everyone will say 'he was warned, should have listened'."

Creed chewed on the story. He might admit she had known how to shut their mouths, but they were still ogling her too much, from what he'd seen tonight.

"Where can I find 'em?"

The woman looked disappointed.

"I fixed that matter," she insisted. "And if you beat them up now, you'll be called an asshole. Because they _are_ heeding my warning."

He wasn't stupid.

"I'm gonna give 'em a warnin', woman. Ya think I'm gonna put up with' em eatin' ya up wi'their eyes?"

She breathed out.

"So it's because of them you don't want me singing? You want me to act like a coward and hide from them?"

What… he hadn't said that!

"I don't want ya makin' a stupid spectacle of yerself fer every asshole in this place ta be droolin' after!"

Her anger resurfaced.

"So you want me to _hide_ from them. As if _I_ was afraid they could do something. As if _I_ was afraid I couldn't handle them. And as if _I_ was afraid _you_ wouldn't immediately hunt them down the moment they did _anything_."

Creed frowned, not sure he was following that line of thought.

"I'm old school Portuguese, my love. Why the hell do I want a man that can't teach oglers a lesson?" What… "I'm _singing_. I'm not provoking anyone. I'm not even showing much skin. _I_ am not stepping on any line; _they_ are. And if a guy steps the line, it's _your_ job to teach him a lesson. If you aren't around, I'll take the matter in my hands. But when you're around, that's _your_ job."

Creed stood there, frowning at the woman. His job was to beat guys ogling her? Just what…

"And I tell you one thing: you are not going to keep me in hiding. Everyone would think you are insecure about me, that you're afraid I could take off with the next guy waving at me, and, mark my words, I am _not_ going to have the whole neighbourhood thinking something like that."

He was insecure…

"What the hell are you babblin' about?!"

The woman breathed out.

"I'm trying to explain the way people think around here. A man that locks up his wife or girlfriend is afraid she's going to run off. He's a possessive asshole and his woman should try to dump him the first chance she gets. Or once she realises what an asshole he is. In summary: if the neighbours think you want me locked in the house, they'll think you're afraid I'll dump you. And they'll also think I _should_ dump you."

Something wasn't adding up.

"Are you tellin' me that if I lock ya in the house, I'm a jerk, but if I beat up guys oglin' you, I'm a great guy?"

"Yes! Well, old fashioned great guy, but yes. If they pester me, you make sure they stop. The only 'but' is that people have to notice I'm annoyed by their harrassment."

These people were crazy! Although it did mean he could target any jerk who hit on his woman and still be hailed as a… a man doing his job. He could live with that.

"Well, I never did say ya couldn't go out. I only said I don't want ya singin' fer 'em assholes."

"For the love of God, man! I am singing _for you_. Not them, not anyone else. I told the whole world I belong to you of my own volition tonight. How can you possibly not want me to force that idea down everyone's throat? Especially those assholes!"

…

It was true, he guessed. She had sang her total devotion to him, after all.

"So tell me what you want: do you want dat I only sing one song if someone asks me to… or do you want me to finish getting us and our false backstory as part of everyone's common knowledge in this neighbourhood? I need to know this clearly."

"I wanna know where I can find this Zehzeh character."

Because no matter what, he was going to have a word with the asshole.

The woman breathed in fiercely. She closed eyes and fists, holding the breath in, then she glared at him as she let the air out.

They were so enticing, those eyes, when she glared like that.

"His friend, Toni. His family has a restaurant. Tasca Antunes. Go down the street, take the first left and go almost to the little square, then go down the narrow stairs, turn right and go down the second little street on the right. It opens up into a patio where the restaurant is. That's where he usually hangs around in the late evening and offers to drive drunk clients to their hotels or wherever."

Which meant he might not be there if he was driving someone. Creed would still walk past the place, get a feel for the area and for how many people there were usually around. The woman turned her back on him and started undressing.

He had missed her temper. Well, maybe not really missed it, but... it was provoking. Like hell was he leaving now! First, he'd make her swallow her anger and yield to him. So he came closer and pulled her hair sternly, though he wasn't too harsh.

"Stop it!"

She swirled angrily about and glared savagely. Creed snarled a warning against that impetuosity but her glare remained the same. Fiery.

Lustful.

The realisation hit home and he sniffed automatically. Yeah, she was horny below all that anger. His own body reacted to that scent and he grabbed her by the arm, pulled her towards him, kissed her harshly.

She did not resist, not for a split second. Instead, she kissed back demandingly and clawed his shirt, actually popping a button or two. When he broke the kiss, she bit him.

"Stop it," he growled.

But she wasn't going to, was she? Not the way she licked her lips, eyes still angrily ablaze.

He slid his claws out and ripped the bra off her body. When he kissed her again, pushing her onto the bed, she grabbed his hair and pulled it taught, painfully but oh so pleasantly, her other hand plunging into his shirt and ruthlessly clawing his back till he could get a faint whiff of his own blood.

He liked them spirited anyway.

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If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	24. Lisbon: The Fight After The Fight

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

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 **24\. Lisbon: The Fight After The Fight**

Isabel lay in bed well after her usual. Victor had just gone to the bathroom to have a shower and she felt like throwing a raging tantrum. Why had she vowed to be compliant? She had loved the evening before, shining and commandeering everyone's attention. She had chosen each song so carefully. For herself and for him. The ungrateful jerk. Hadn't he seen how each song had further galvanised the audience? The blind asshole. Hadn't he seen how the place had had more clientelle than usual, and only after she had started singing? Cold-hearted bastard. Hadn't he seen how everybody with eyes and ears understood she was singing for him? Jealous dumbass.

Love-struck dumbass, too. Why on earth did she have to get thrilled everytime he glared at her? Why did that stupid snarl of his resonate inside her more deeply than when he grinned good-naturedly? Why did she have that destructive urge to spike his anger and aggravate him? Why did angry sex have to be so electrifying? Masochist jerk.

Oh, but it had been _so_ good! All she could think of was why, why!, hadn't they ended up having sex in their last fight, a month ago, back in Vancouver? Because sex during a fight was absolutely and undeniably phenomenal! And she had had no idea whatsoever till now.

He had probably thought the same. He hadn't left to go after Zézé, had he? Why? He was having too much fun in her bed. Oh, yeah! She might still be fresh off her sex diapers, but she was hot enough to keep that bomb of a man fucking her through the night instead of going out hunting a fight.

Though it hadn't been so good she'd forgotten her beef with the guy. Jealous jerk. It still hurt – and it sure as hell still riled her up too – that she had bared her soul and heart to him and he'd dismissed it. Sure he had rebuffed her 'I love you', back on their trip to Vancouver, but singing out her love for him, and not with a single corny lyric, was different. It was stronger, deeper. It had real impact.

Stupid, blind asshole.

But what if that was what had annoyed him? What if he really didn't want her to love him? What if he really didn't want her professing her love for him, whether in private or in public?

In the bathroom, Victor closed the water.

She had promised Our Lady she'd be the perfect little lover, and wife, and housekeeper, and whatever, for as long as she was in Portugal. That she'd obey his every wish and command. Why did she make stupid promises in the heat of the moment?

Isabel got up with a groan, and put on a robe. Damn, she was sore. He really hadn't held a single thrust this time, and it had been a long night. Not that she was complaining! But it really wasn't the best day to go to the doctor. Oh! Dona Mila, the downstairs neighbour! She was a bit on the deaf side, but she could hear well enough when she wanted to. Half the neighbourhood would know by now they had had the loudest night ever. Would she have been able to pick up it had started as a fight? Better have a story ready just in case…

Isabel walked slowly towards the kitchen. She might be able to preempt the worst if she opened the game herself. Probably at the cornershop. She could comment that… that… he was a stupid pig-headed ass who wanted to impress her with a huge catholic wedding when she just wanted a discrete affair. Very appropriate topic for a freshly engaged couple. Yeah, she'd go with that. More fuel for their perfect cover.

She could hear him doing whatever in the bathroom. Shaving maybe? She should smile when he got out, she guessed. Though it was not going to happen. Too much effort for her bad mood. She would, however, make sure he couldn't notice she was sore. Like Hell she was going to give him that little victory.

As she cooked, she tried to get a sense of perspective. She had been living with the guy for… counting from the time he'd saved her and taken her to Mexico, that came to three months. Two serious fights in three months was not that bad. Especially when she knew full well she was living with an incredibly short-fused man. She had not been terribly shy about confronting him before, even if only when he reached certain limits, like calling her girl or Izzie-Easy, or like threatening to humilliate her just to tease her. Brainless ass!

A group of pigeons flew noisily by her window and her eyes went over to it, then fell on the small image of Our Lady. She grinned, unamused.

"Was this the penance you chose for me? Because if that's the case, I'm not doing any more prayed penance for that fake marriage he's walking into. Putting up with this, and setting him straight on top of it, is more than enough."

Because she had to set him straight. He had always listened to her before, about how things worked here in Portugal. Why was he being so pig-headed? Because of jealousy? That idea reeked of insecurity. I mean, he was the hottest, sexiest man alive. Dangerous, unbeatable and unrivalled. There was no way she was leaving him (even if she could), and there was no way any guy could stand a chance posing as his rival, so where did the insecurity fueling his jealousy come from? She could understand some insecurity where it came to her satisfaction, since he was socially inept and might fear losing her love, or interest or… whatever he thought they had. But social ineptitude did not explain reacting to any guy ogling her as if he were a rival worthy of his attention. They weren't! She really needed to start working on this.

The eggs were almost cooked when he came out. Not in the best of moods either. Did he still think she was manipulating him? And then _she_ was the stubborn one. When he got something into that thick skull of his…

"Good morning," and she managed to conjure a slight, empty-hearted grin.

"You should hurry up," he said in Spanish. Maybe he wasn't in that bad a mood after all. "Ya got yer doc's appointment today, remember?"

To insist on the topic or to pretend the argument hadn't been so heated? She hesitated, maybe for a bit too long.

"If you got something to say, spit it out."

He still said it in Spanish. Right, take the chance and clear the air. Swallow the frog to reassure his sensitive ego and then push towards the real goal.

"I'm sorry."

That got his attention.

"I'm sorry I lost control and cussed." And that she truly was. "I'm sorry I declared my love for you in public, and I'm sorry I didn't explain how I intended to impress everyone beforehand."

Maybe if she had convinced him to ok her initiative, he wouldn't have blown up so badly. He did like to have everything under control, and maybe he'd give her a bit more freedom if he thought she wasn't trying to escape his control. Maybe. He could be very accommodating when he was in a good mood, barely bothering to check her movements, but once something pissed him off…

"I am not going back on my decision no matter how many sorries you pile up."

Isabel breathed out, the infant feeling of defeat riling her up. He still thought she was trying to manipulate him. She fought back a sudden urge to do something rash. What she needed was a way to prove to him she was not manipulating him. How?

"If you want, I can think up a reason why I don't sing in public anymore."

The man shook his head.

"People will realise something's wrong. Cover story, remember?"

"No one knows I'm pregnant yet. Tonight, you can go to Mariana's and tell everyone that we went to the doctor and I'm pregnant. And that the doctor said something is not well and that I have to be very careful because I risk losing the baby. That way, I have every reason to stay inside the house. I can buy a guitar and people still hear me play and sing, because the windows are open. And I can talk to the neighbours from the window and give more details about it."

If he saw she was ready to bow down to his wishes at her own expense, he might finally realise she was not trying to manipulate him.

"I know you never really wanted me to go out to cafés after dinner, so now I really can't go. At least until I lose the baby."

He chewed on the idea. He had better not accept her offer, though.

"And everyone will be able to understand why I'm so unhappy all the time."

The man frowned.

"Unhappy? Ya never look unhappy."

Was he stupid?

"Yes, of course! I give up going out at night, which I love. I live in constant worry that you think I'm trying to manipulate you. I practically agree to be under house arrest to make you happy. And you think I'm not going to be unhappy? I've told you before, Victor, I'm not a saint. I can make sacrifices for what you want, but making sacrifices doesn't exactly make people happy, you know?"

He snarled and she spit it out dripping sarcasm without thinking twice.

"Oh, wait! Now you'll say I'm trying to manipulate you because I'm telling you that you have to choose between me doing what you want and being unhappy, or me not doing what you want and being happy. That's called consequences, you know? If I live exactly like you want me to live, I will _not_ be happy. What a surprise! That's the price, ok? It's not manipulating. It's a fact. You decide if you want me happy or not. And I am not difficult to make happy. For the love of God, man! I told the whole world yesterday that I love you more than anything which is the only way I can tell anyone I belong to you and not have everyone go nuts with how fucked up that is and _you_ … God! Holy Mary, give me strength!"

Oh, how wonderful! She'd gotten the man scowling again. Might as well finish, though.

"I'd still like to know _why_ you got jealous over some asshole ogling me when I'm telling everyone to fuck off because I want to be with you! Hell, has it ever occurred to you that they were simply wishing I wasn't taken? That they were thinking 'fuck that foreign prick, lucky motherfucker'? Because they probably were. Shit, _I_ would sure envy any fucking bitch who had a handsome man professing his undying love in public! It only adds to your status, man! The more guys find me desirable, the luckier and more enviable they'll see you as. It's supposed to be _good_! Can't you see that?"

Maybe he had recognised some level of truth to what she was saying because he was still sitting there in silence, even if he was scowling and snarling, when he had never once let her have a say-so in an argument when he thought he was lord and master of the truth.

"Right. I'm sorry I blew up again," let him smell that lie all he wanted. "I'm going to have a shower now and hurry up."

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If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	25. Lisbon: Books

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **25\. Lisbon: Books**

It was another marvelous sunny day in Lisbon. Just like every other June day. Or July, or August. Ah! This was the life!

Now if only Isabel didn't have to wear a jacket. Even if it was a light jacket, it was still a bit too much for the 2 pm temperatures of that particular day. She longed to enjoy the sun on her bare shoulders. Unfortunately, that wasn't going to happen any time soon and, for once, it was not because of any jealous possessive issues on the man's side. Apparently, rough angry sex with Victor Creed meant a bit more than just a sore pussy, namely, a few bruises and scratches. And although Isabel was sane enough to recognise she had better not let anyone see those marks, she was also ashamed to admit the scratches turned her on. What on earth was wrong with her?

She sighed. Although, truth be said, she had always enjoyed the feel of his claws cruising over her skin. She just hadn't imagined how hot it was when they actually broke the skin during sex, or how divine it was when he licked and sucked the cuts clean.

"What are ya sighing about, you little tease?"

Isabel smiled automatically at Victor Creed. He might be a brutish asshole but, sitting at that outside café, making his requests in nearly perfect (if very limited) Portuguese, he looked so stunning she fancied every passing woman looked his way. It was all that confidence that exuded from him, she was sure, which made her think that she really needed to focus on reeducating those insecurities of his that exploded in jealousy fits. She just needed to wait for the right time to start.

She crossed her legs and danced on the chair, very much aware she was wearing nothing under her dress. Well, under her underskirt, anyway.

She had never before tried it outside the house, wearing a skirt without panties, despite all her boldness when talking about it, or thinking about it. But since Victor had sulkingly told her, the night before, to go on and sing whatever she felt like – very ostensibly for their cover's sake – Isabel had decided he needed a reward.

"Nothing," she smiled. "It's just that I wanted a special dessert!"

She allowed a little smirk to pull her lips as her eyes dropped down his chest before she looked away with another loud, longing sigh. She'd be much happier if she could think of any place in the neighbourhood where they could vanish into for a quickie. Because if the man had had to readjust his jeans when he'd finally realised she was fully accessible, during lunch, Isabel wasn't any less eager to put that accessibility into practice. And yet, here they were, roaming touristy downtown at a provocating slow pace, hopping from café to café.

She couldn't stop wondering whether he was punishing her. Because he could smell she was horny – she had no doubt whatsoever of that – but he still hadn't put an end to the day out and taken her straight to a bedroom. In fact, he was the one pointing at the café patios and saying he could use some whiskey here, or those ice-creams looked tasty, or I want to try one of those Portuguese coffees. He didn't even like Portuguese coffees! Too short and too strong, he said. Well, he _said_. Who knows if he wasn't just keeping some weird reputation when it came to liking this or that type of coffee? Oh, men! They're such children!

"Say, who's that wimp over there?"

Isabel looked around.

"Oh, that? Skinny guy, isn't he? That's a statue in homage to Fernando Pessoa, the greatest Portuguese poet to have ever lived! I mean, after Camões. And, if I may say so, after Florbela Espanca. She had terrible bad luck at love, but she wrote poetry that is pure emotion. And they make great songs, too! Oh, and Ary dos Santos! He wrote lots of great lyrics for songs, not to mention he was an actual poet too. At least I think he was. Anyway, our dear Pessoa used to come to this café so they had the statue made. Or something like that. My interest in poetry at school was only for as long as the poems could be turned into lyrics, you know, so you have to take what I say with a pinch of salt."

The man grinned sideways and Isabel laughed. Oh, she was happy. Really happy! If only happiness could last!

"Come on, I saw a bookshop when we were coming up and I want to buy a book."

"A _book_?" She blurted without thinking. "Why do you want to buy a book?"

He stopped as he was about to get up and actually stared at her for a second.

"I don't know. Thought I could read it or something."

Isabel laughed. He could be so silly! Getting up to go after him, she insisted.

"You know what I meant! Why do you want to read a book?"

He put a hand over her shoulders and pulled her close to his side, and she quickly slid a hand into his jeans' back pocket.

"Because you learn all sorts of things from reading. You should give it a try."

Isabel was that close to put into words how much she dismissed the whole idea as a waste of time. And it wasn't that she didn't recognise people can learn stuff from books, very worthy stuff even. However, the only thing she enjoyed reading was music, and that she did learn from. She learnt a new song! But then they entered the old bookshop and she got a sudden craving.

"Ok! You choose a book for me."

He looked her over, clearly aware there was something underneath her request, then started going through the place. She was thrilled, wondering what book he was going to pick for her, and shadowed him all over the cramped shop as he scrutinised tables and cases.

Every time Victor picked a book to check the blurb or take a peek inside, Isabel held her breath. Was he choosing that for her or for him? She watched him as he inspected travelling books for tourists (did that mean he wanted to go holidaying through the country?), classic works (she had not taken him for a classicist!), novels (not one of those had the slightest suggestion of romance, though, being all mysteries and thrillers from the look of the covers), and even a couple of poetry volumes (poetry? Was he mocking her?). Finally, he handed her a book with the heavy sounding title of Portuguese Governmental Policies and Their Outcomes.

"I'm taking that one for me," he said. "Might as well see how much salt you've been pinching on what you tell me about the country."

Isabel held back a flabbergasted grimace and simply asked 'politics?'.

"Yeah," he shrugged. "The decisions of a government and how people react to them tells you tons about how a country thinks. It's a great mirror of its culture."

Right. Have fun with politics, love! If he asked her, street parties with local music were much better places to study cultural aspects of anything. Extra thick as that book was, and written in Portuguese on top of it, Isabel had the impression it would end up being used to kill a night of insomnia.

"And this is for you."

Her heart skipped of curiosity! Down the Drain. That was the title. In English. She couldn't even tell what it was supposed to mean! With a great effort, she tried not to show too much disappointment.

"I thought you said no English."

The man grinned. Evilly, if you asked Isabel.

"It'll help you improve your English for when we go back to Canada." Ah. How marvelous. She'd much prefer getting stuck with his Spanish than with English. Easier to understand and easier to imitate. "There's even a sappy love story angle."

How did he know that? "You've read it before?"

"Hell, no! It's in the blurb. The hero has to find a serial killer and save a hapless chick. See here?"

He turned the book around so she could read the blurb, but she wasn't really interested. Should she say she'd rather have something without a romantic angle? And, anyway, if he thought the tale was rubbish, why was he forcing her to read it? If she had to read something, then it might as well be good, right? Oh, what the hell! She would end up hating it anyway. Might as well hate rubbish than proper literature.

"Thanks," though she was aware she was doing a terrible job at hiding her true feelings.

Not that Victor seemed much worried. He carried on through cases and tables, one small room after the next small room, on and on through tables and cases. Isabel followed in a dejected mood.

"I thought you didn't like politics," she ended up muttering.

Not that he'd ever said anything specific on the topic, but he grumbled a lot whenever the news mentioned politics and policies and politicians… She'd figured he couldn't care less about those assholes.

"Something I picked up from a former boss."

He added another book he'd just been checking to the pile in her arms. A thick anthology of Portuguese supposedly best poetry through history.

"Oh?"

He leaned back with a grin as he entered yet another room and slid a hand over her shoulders, pulling her in and scurrying to the right.

"He'd have killed ya with a snap of his fingers," he whispered in her ear in English, his hand already groping her ass. "He hated humans."

Such nice guys he associated with.

"Well, I'm not a normal human," she moaned, grinding her pelvis against his body.

"But ya ain't a mutant," his hand got off her ass as he stooped to get it under the knee-length skirt. "That's what mattered t'him."

Still holding the books in one hand, Isabel groped the man's hard…

"He al… shit."

The books escaped Isabel's grip as Victor took a sudden step back and pretended to be interested in whatever. Someone had just come in. Damn, she was flushed! And she could really use a bedroom, or anywhere private, for at least a few minutes.

Isabel stooped to get the fallen books and Victor followed her down, taking the chance to grope her again.

"He always said that ya needed two things to understand yer enemies. First, know their recent history, which is basically a string o' political stands and how the country reacts to 'em. Second, know their art. Not the commercial shit, but the real thing. It's a window into humanity's soul, he said."

That explained the anthology. Whatever! Isabel was far more interested in keeping watch over the intruders and, the moment they left the room, she leaned over to kiss the man. Who cared what his murderous ex-boss thought? But Victor pulled back with a naughty grin and put one of the books which had fallen in between them.

"Hold it for me," he returned to Spanish.

Isabel groaned, frustrated.

"Dis is not funny now," she told him in English.

As if to prove her wrong, Victor laughed and got up, pulling her up.

"Well, you sure are amusing," he said, not even looking at her. "Let's go."

Oh yeah? If he was going to be an ass, Isabel saw no reason to be nice and accommodating. As they were making their way out of the store, a row of rooms one after the other, Isabel stopped.

"I have a better idea," she said in Portuguese.

When he looked back, she showed him the book he'd picked for her.

"I'm sure there will be many more, and better, books for you to choose from when we go to Canada. Right now, I think this is more interesting."

She dropped the English book and picked up a Portuguese one. The miracle of pregnancy.

"Far more appropriate, don't you think so?"

She regretted it the moment she saw his face. The man was literally holding his breath. All of a sudden, Isabel knew that his uninterest in talking about the doctor's information and the exam results, his dissmissiveness about the baby's impending death… it was all a front. A front destined to protect him from getting his hopes up only to be wounded by the inevitable. He wanted the child to be born. He wanted a son. He… And what was she doing, playing teasing games with such a serious matter?

She looked away, put the book slowly back to its place.

"I'm sorry I… I don't know what came over me. Stupid thing to do. I'm sorry."

"You're ten weeks and almost a half," he said quietly, coming over to her side and looking at the tens of titles on pregnancy spread on that table. "And there are absolutely no signs of a single problem. From what you said about the women in the project, I doubt they ever even reached the end of the first trimester or they wouldn't have talked about failing to get pregnant; they'd have talked about failed pregnancies."

She nodded. She had thought that many times too. Not to mention the doctor had mentioned that all exams were negative, that everything seemed to point this was to be a normal, healthy pregnancy.

"Besides… you're ten weeks and a half."

Another two weeks and the first trimester was over.

"It's starting to show, too."

It was? She looked up at him. Victor was frowning at the piles of books, his face expressionless.

"It's obvious when you're naked."

Isabel looked down at her belly. The man was hallucinating! If anything, she might look a bit bloated on some positions but… she looked bloated on some stages of her menstrual cycle, too. Or after a hearty meal. Or when she was feeling lazy and slumped her shoulders. And she knew because she'd been looking at herself on the mirror every morning, waiting for the baby bump to become visible. It definitely wasn't. Her breasts were bigger, yes, but not her belly. Even if she had put on nearly three pounds, it was still very much not visible.

"You probably…"

Victor picked up one of the books and flipped through it. Did he want this child so much he was already picturing her more pregnant than she was?

"This one has nothing useful," he grumbled, picking another one. "Nothing but pretty pictures, banalities and basic facts that even I know. Give me a hand find something with real information, will you?"

* * *

Creed couldn't sleep. It was way past 2 a.m. and he… in the not so far distance, the bells of a church tolled the half hour. 2.30 am. He was fed up with this.

Getting up, he closed the bedroom door and went into the tiny living room, switching the light on. The four books were piled on a side table next to sofa and they attracted him like a flame attracts a moth. He sat down and picked up the first one. Poetry. His brain suggested going through it, which would probably get him sleepy, but he set it down on the sofa and picked the second one. Politics. Now here was something to help cure the uncalled for insomnia. Creed went as far as to flick through it. There were occasional black and white photos and maps. He placed it over the poetry one and looked at the last two.

Why had he bought two? No matter what it looked like, there was no sense in getting hopeful before the first trimester was over. Two weeks is more than enough time for things to go wrong. He picked them up.

One was all about big pictures with snippets of inconsequential information, but Isabel had liked the profuse illustrations of the baby's growth. He opened the heavier one. This one had proper text. Creed didn't really understand the modern tendency to prefer big pictures and little text. Text is what gives real information, not mellow, smiling pics of mommy and unborn babe. Especially because unborn babies didn't really look like those pictures. He knew. He had disembowled a pregnant woman before, as part of a job. Not a pretty image.

He looked for the chapter on the tenth week. There was a diagram of a fetus with arrows mentioning which body parts were under development.

He had never enjoyed it, he told himself as the image of those gutted mum-to-be decided to pester him. Of course he yapped a lot about killing his victims' wife and children – it was the kind of thing that froze people's blood and anyone who knew him would believe he was dying to do so. What he had never confessed to anyone was that his animal instincts didn't like it. There was a scent emanating from pregnant women and young children that simply… he didn't even know how to explain it! It felt unnatural to harm them. Which was why he did. It was a weakness he wouldn't allow to control him. He particularly remembered Epsilon Red's woman. She must have been near term, because her belly was huge, and that scent all around her… The moment the Soviet had asked him for a mercy kill, he hadn't hesitated. Well, he had. He had meant to actually hit her full force on the belly, just to really go against his mellowing instinct, but had instead hit her on the torso. And in a not immediately lethal point, too. That was how bad his animal instinct got.

Anyway, the point was that fetuses aren't the cute, chubby critters these pics made them out to be.

The images of the killed mum-to-be kept haunting him so he focused on the text, trying to forget it.

The mother's pregnant bump was likely to become visible in week ten. That was a no-brainer he'd been on the lookout for, even if he hadn't known it was scheduled for their current week. Anyway, check. Breasts became visibly bigger. Another no-brainer. He'd noticed that a few days before, so check. Veins became more visible so as to better irrigate the baby. He had noticed the ones on her breasts were bluer but he hadn't known why. Anyway, check for the breast veins. He'd keep an eye out for the rest of her body from now on. Fatigue. Isabel had never shown fatigue, but she was good at pretending everything was fine, so he couldn't be sure. He'd have to be more insistent and ask her directly, that way he could smell any lies and know for sure. Increased vaginal discharge. He hadn't known about that one. He'd have to be on the lookout for that, too. Round ligament pain? Now that could not be something most people knew about, Isabel included, so the woman would have asked the doc if she had felt anything like that.

Right. What else? Weight. He did some quick math converting kilos to the more familiar pounds and decided he'd have to start controlling Isabel's weight. The doc was controlling it too, but he only ever said her weight was fine, no details added. He did not like that type of vagueness where his son was involved. Pregnant women are supposed to gain three to five pounds in the first trimester so, being in week ten, he decided that Isabel should have gained between two and a half to four pounds. Anything outside those parameters would mean she was either eating too little or too much.

The idea struck him then: what he needed was for Isabel to start a diary. That way, she'd have to write down her weight and volume increase, as well as anything else she felt. They'd been through one of those, in the bookshop. It had all those nice pics and banalities but it had space for taking notes plus adding photos and ultrasound pics and stuff. Damn, he had vetoed that one because it had no real information. He'd get it tomorrow.

Out of curiosity, he picked the cheesy one, which Isabel had preferred. It was a diary in itself, saying which changes and milestones to expect throughout the weeks, but Creed wasn't as interested in the averages as in whether Isabel was keeping within the boundaries of a healthy pregnancy. The book kept going all the way to the birth and the first six months.

For some reason, the images of the newborn reminded him of Graydon Creed. There was no reason for it to happen, since he'd never as much as glimpsed an image of the boy as a child, but it still happened.

Graydon Creed.

He'd been a puny human but he was no pansy. He'd made himself strong, physically and socially. He hadn't feared anything or anyone. Even as Creed had grabbed him by the neck and he had had no way of hoping to survive, even then he hadn't been afraid. He'd been too full of hate to feel fear. The boy had killed Birdie just to spite him, even as he had every reason to believe that would be his last action before dying.

It filled Creed with pride. His own son, carving his way in the world through corpses and mayhem. Fearless. Strong, at least for a human.

But it hurt too. His one and only son… and the boy hated him. An anti-mutant fanatic. Sure, Creed had been in plenty of pro-mutant and anti-human teams and so-called brotherhoods. He'd spewed the established propaganda as required, but he hadn't necessarily believed the whole party line. It was just part of the show! The only thing he believed in was his own superior power and strength, his superior instincts. Those were real. Graydon, though, he'd believed the anti-mutant dogma blindly. He should have seen that it's one's strength that matters. There are humans that are worth a thousand mutants, even if they're rare. As in, one in ten million. Graydon could have been one such if he hadn't been so blinded by his moronic hate.

Anyway, Creed couldn't help but wonder… what would it have been like to hit a bar with the boy? To go to games and boxing matches and… hunting! They could have gone hunting together. Animals or people, it made no nevermind.

He looked at the photo of a sleeping newborn.

Could he do it with this son, though? Hell, of course he could. He would! How else was the boy going to learn how to hunt? He'd go out into the woods with his Poppa, that's how. Obviously, Creed would have to keep in mind the boy wouldn't have a healing factor, wouldn't have heightened senses, but he knew how to teach the little one to overcome those weaknesses. He would…

…be human. And what if he ended up becoming an anti-mutant too? What if…

What the hell! Isabel was only ten weeks along and there were still two full weeks for the woman to lose the baby. Fetus. The weakling critter inside her.

Creed closed the book and dropped it back on the side table. He was getting ahead of himself, thinking about the future like it was guaranteed. There was a lot to happen between now and then, like… like having a word with that Zézé asshole.

Creed had ended up not leaving the house on the night of their fight. Hell of a lay that woman was when she was pissed! He really had to provoke her more often. She gave as hard as she got, or as much as she could, and no matter how hard he fucked her, she had just come up asking for more.

He had had to give her permission to sing whatever she felt like the following evening, obviously, but she'd behaved and sang only once. Then, as the folks insisted, Creed had permitted a second song before leaving. Zézé hadn't showed up. Once Isabel was asleep (and, now that he thought about it, she had fallen asleep rather quickly. Fatigue: check), Creed had left the house and stopped by Tasca Antunes, but Zézé had been with female company and he hadn't interrupted. His cover did ask for an upstanding guy, after all, and if the jerk wasn't obviously pestering Isabel, he'd have to give him a warning in absolute privacy. The street where Tasca Antunes stood was definitely not it.

Outside, the church bells were tolling. 3 a.m..

Maybe he should find out where the guy lived and drop by in the small hours. Isabel could certainly find that out for him.

Creed glanced towards the pregnancy book on his lap. He turned a page onto week eleven. Baby bump should be visible, though maybe not for first time pregnancies. Well, Isabel's was. Mood swings. Check and double-check. Leg cramps, more likely to hit at night. She hadn't had any yet. A potassium and magnesium rich diet was advisable to avoid it altogether or, at least, to diminish the intensity.

Well, if leg cramping was on for next week, he might as well get her pantry filled with stuff to prevent it _this_ week. He got up and went into the bedroom. Isabel turned grumpingly in bed before he got his smart phone and left again, standing in the corridor as he opened an internet connection. Let's see, foods high in magnesium and potassium…

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	26. Lisbon: Market day

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **26\. Lisbon: Market day**

Creed looked up from the book to pay more attention to the news. That particular channel focused on national news, but every now and then produced a block of international ones. In this particular instance, a journalist was covering an attack by a group of mutants in Texas. Apparently, they had been working for coyotes, bringing Mexican immigrants into the States, but for some reason there had been a falling-out and lethal chaos had followed.

"Um jovem filmou as imagens que vamos ver no seu telemóvel," Creed repeated the journalist's line a couple of times, trying to get the accent right.

There were a few tricky consonants that made him sound more Portuguese, even when he was using Spanish words, but Creed was confident he'd gotten the hang of those. The vowels, on the other hand… If it weren't for Isabel teaching him a few general use phrases and sentences and then helping him rehearse them till he got the vowel sounds right, he doubted he'd ever get there on his own.

Of course all the neighbours praised his level of Portuguese, especially the accent! Little did they know he could only parrot those two dozens of sentences correctly. To strike a conversation, though, required far more: actual understanding of structures, actual memorisation of vocabulary, plenty of pronunciation practice. And while he was working on memorising vocabulary, pronunciation was a slow process. He sometimes wondered if he should invest more time in practising it with Isabel, but he hardly ever felt like doing it.

When he'd learnt Spanish, first on account of South American black ops, then for those few ops in Franco's Spain, everything had been so simpler. He had listened to the radio for hours, away from everyone else, repeating everything that was said as faithfully as possible. Of course there had been actual classes, and strict ones too. He'd excelled! Had worked damned hard for it, but he'd excelled. First, they'd gone through the basic state-sponsored accent, then they'd added a few details about regional particularities. Those details had been only for the few who'd managed to have top marks in the least time. In Portugal, on the other hand, TV spewed all sorts of accents left and right and he had no way of knowing if it was northern, southern, appropriate or not. That's why he preferred to keep to the news. Newsreaders were always supposed to follow the standard.

As an ad interrupted the programme, Creed returned his attention to the book. Magneto might have been right when he said everyday politics over time make a big impact, but going through such thick volumes could get boring. Eye-opening, but boring like all hell. From what he'd read so far, he was starting to get the impression Portuguese culture was the type to put up with figurative beatings and carry on. Complaining, but not doing anything. He smirked, hadn't Isabel mentioned something about complaining being a national hobby, right after soccer?

Which reminded him, where was the woman? He knew damn well that Isabel spent more time than necessary outside because she took every chance she could to chat with everyone, collecting all sorts of tidbits. He understood. She might get useless information, but she also got a few pearls that she used to further their presence in the community. He wasn't exactly sure how, since he did nothing in the community besides evening stops at Mariana's, but she was doing her job and throwing her weight around in order to get her new identity as air-tight as possible. However, she had never stayed out for…

"I'm back!"

"It's about time," he growled. "Where the hell did you go? China? It's almost midday!"

"Sorry, love. It's market day. It always takes longer."

Over three hours? Isabel let out a tired sigh as she reached the kitchen and Creed frowned at the sound. If she was showing fatigue, rather than hiding it, then something wasn't right. He headed to the kitchen immediately and found her taking bag after bag from a big shopping trolley bag. Apples, pears, potatoes, onions, meat…

"Why the hell are you so loaded? I've told you not to make any efforts!"

The woman rolled her eyes, which only strengthened his conviction she wasn't well. She had way better control than that.

"That's why I have the trolley bag, right? It's no effort at all."

"And does it climb the stairs, too? Why didn't you call me to give you a hand bringing it up, damn it!"

She sighed and conceded he was right. Sorry. Then she carried on putting the food in the pantry and the fridge but she was definitely not right. He grabbed her by an arm to get her attention and she didn't even offer a token resistance.

"What's wrong?"

She shook her head in a negative.

"There's a kid in the neighbourhood who's a mutant," she explained. "Everyone's talking about it. If you go out now you'll hear everyone saying how the 'poor kid' and his family have had bad luck for years and now this revelation."

Creed wasn't sure how this tied in with her tiredness, but maybe she was beating about the bush as usual. He pulled out a chair and had her sit down, hoping she got to the point soon.

"Apparently it's not an obvious mutation and, apparently, a few people knew about it but looked the other way. Anyway, the other night there was a fight or something and his powers flared so… _everyone_ knows."

Still no connection to her tiredness. Wait, maybe this was about mood swings? The kid's story had affected her emotions and stuff and she'd stopped hiding her fatigue.

"Do you always feel this tired?"

That question was too direct for Isabel not to give him a truthful answer, but she frowned and shook her head.

"What are you talking about? I thought… I mean, you're all 'so mutant haters should all be disembowled'; I thought you were going to… I don't know, get pissed at the neighbourhood."

He was all in favour for disembowling lots of people, not just mutant haters. And what did he care about the mutant kid anyway? He waved a dismissive hand.

"Is there going to be a lynching mob?"

That might allow for some fun and games, being a perfect excuse to go on a killing spree, but this was neither the right place nor the right time for it.

"What? Of course not! No one's doing anything about it. They're just talking. As far as I know, they're even about to keep pretending they don't know about it in front of the kid and his family, even if that's all everyone is going on about. I mean, the kid's mother was in the market while I was there and no one said anything to her. At least not to her face. There were some assholes making some mean comments but no one was paying them much attention and she did her shopping as usual. Or as usual as possible."

Creed shrugged.

"I don't give a damn 'bout that boy, Nesi," he explained in English. "If anything, I might get pissed the situation affected ya. Ya look way too tired an' don't ya gimme no shit 'bout how it ain't so."

Isabel sighed and offered a little smile.

"I am a bit tired today," she conceded. "But I was really worried about this with the kid. You always sound so radical when it comes to mutants and humans."

She started getting up but he put a hand on her shoulder and had her sit down again, reminding her she needed to rest.

"Yes, I know, but first I want to put the food away and get started on lunch. The sardines were way too expensive, so I brought some mackarel instead and some..."

"No! First, ya get some rest. Lunch can wait."

To underline his words, he got up and threw all the fish and meat into the fridge, then dragged her to the bedroom and had her lie down.

"Ya need t'get into that dumb head of yers that ya're pregnant and ya need t'rest."

For once, she did not complain and simply pulled his arm so he'd keep her company on the bed.

"You really don't worry about the kid? What if… what if he was persecuted or expelled from his house or something?"

"Nope. I don't give a damn 'bout 'im. In fact, what ya said, that there ain't no lynching squad in the make, that's actually a good sign. And it ain't 'bout _that_ kid, mind ya, it's 'bout _this_ kid." He rubbed her belly. "A place where folks get bloodthirsty at the mention of a mutant in the area is a dangerous place. I ain't gonna stand no danger ta him, no matter who's it comin' from."

"And if he didn't exist," she asked, putting a hand over his.

"Ya have no idea what real persecution is, Nesi. I've seen it first hand an' both ways: mutants 'gainst humans and humans 'gainst mutants. There's only one good thing out of it: a hell of a good fight."

Or bad, depending on the situations. Creed sat cross-legged on the bed and enjoyed the woman's full attention.

"The politics ya despise so much? That's the worst. 'Em politicians start makin' one lil' law here, another lil' act there, an' before ya knows it, there's the army breathin' down every mutants' neck. And it ain't like I give a damn 'bout anyone else, but if there's one thing I can't stand is when they comes down, 'em big army shots, an' start pickin' an' choosin' mutants ta use as their guinea pigs, makin' them inta weapons and one-man-armies an' bein' so mind-wiped they's ready t' jump through every ring at their beck an' call. _That_ , I really can't stand."

She nodded, so serious.

"The politicians ain't the worst, though. Sure, they'd have us all thrown into cages and ferget 'bout us; but the army, the army is the real danger. We're nuthin' more than their tools an' they'll do anythin' t'get their hands on the best mutant powers. Healin' factors, especially. A soldier with a healin' factor can get through a tone of abuse an' still come out on top. They make a hell of a great guinea pig fer 'em fucked-up army scientists, too. An' feral mutants? Hell, better not t' go there. Every freakin' army wants a pet feral mutant at their beck an' call. Ya ain't got no idea. Ya think ya had it bad in that Montana lab, when I first saved yer ass? Wait till ya hear what they do t'mutants. As far as they're concerned, we're worse 'an animals. Ya have no idea how many interventions I had without a single anesthetic shot. Hell, I've had a few where I was drugged, but that was mostly 'cause they was afraid I'd break free, otherwise… even animals get sedatives. Mutants? Who cares!"

"Victor, love, I'm sorry I brought this topic up."

Creed caught himself then. He was probably upsetting her.

"No problem. Anyways, ya want me ta get ya yer book?"

She shook her head lazily.

"I was wondering if you've heard about the festival."

The St. António one? He'd have to be blind, deaf and stupid not to have heard about it.

"What about it?"

"Dona Lúcia is organising the neighbourhood party."

Yeah, he'd heard about it too. They'd been talking about adding some tables in the street, outside Mariana's, for a sort of communal feast followed by a dance with musicians on an improvised stage.

"So, what about it?"

Though he could guess she wanted to book a place for the communal dinner.

"She asked me if I want to sing a few songs." Oh, no she didn't! "It's just a few! And it's St. António, love. It's the party of the year. We can't be hermits on that night. Not on _that_ night. I'll say I got a cold and I'll stay in the house for a week. Promise!"

"No!"

"It's a sacrifice that must be made for our cover story."

He laughed! He actually laughed at that.

"It ain't _your_ sacrifice, that's fer sure!"

"Well, no, but… please? If you ask anyone, they'll tell you: you have to be on your death bed not to participate. And the thing is, if I sing at the party, then I'll be part of the history of the place. It's perfect for our cover story. I swear before God and the Virgin Mary! It's true. Can you please, _please_ , think about it?"

"We can join the dinner, but there ain't gonna be no partyin', woman. Not in your state."

Now it was her turn to laugh.

"I have no intention of partying, my love. I swear! All I ask is for the opportunity to join the community and sing. No dancing, no drinking, no jumping around, no craziness, no partying. Honest! And I really mean it, love, because the last time I came to St. António… You have no idea what this night is like! I was up for 36 hours straight and, although I did not get drunk, uh-uh, not me, ever!, I did dance till I couldn't stand on my feet. It was the best year ever because I had no boyfriend that year – Miguel and I had had a big fight and precisely because of the festival, _and_ his mother, but that's something else – anyway, I was temporarily single and I came in with half a dozen friends, caught up with another half a dozen and we had a major blast! I mean, I… uh… what I mean is that that's _not_ my plan _at all_. No partying. Just, sitting on a chair on that little stage and singing half a dozen songs or so. That's all. Please?"

Allright, he admitted. He really didn't know this woman at all. She was a freaking party girl! What he needed was to… yeah, that was precisely it! He had to hurry up the whole wedding nonsense, since they needed guests and witnesses and all that, and then he'd ship her off to… somewhere without parties. Outside Lisbon, definitely, and any other big capital. He'd start by looking up Portuguese cities without a good night life.

"Victor? Please, don't be mad, but this is crucial. I am ready to spend an entire month stuck in the house every single evening, ok? That is how important St. António is. I trade you one entire month for staying out till midnight at most. Do we have a deal? _Please_?"

He was about to say no. Ten pm at most, but then he got a whiff of fear. She was actually afraid he'd refuse to let her go and that had him take a step back on his decision. He didn't want her to be upset and she was upset enough already. Getting a flat no might start a scene, what with the mood swings that messed up her ability to control her temper, and he didn't want a repetition of the other night, even though angry sex had turned out to be great. Still, the woman was pregnant and he did need to have some basic precautions if he didn't want his unborn son to suffer unnecessary stress.

"Fine," he said, though he'd find a way to cut the night short later on. "We got a deal."

It was also for the best if he didn't mention he'd be looking for a new place to stay, outside Lisbon. He'd wait till the wedding and then he'd give her the news. Sure, she'd make a scene then but the later it happened, the better. Hey, that reminded him…

"Have ya talked t'the priest yet?"

"Not yet. He wasn't in when I stopped by the church yesterday, but I set an appointment for today, after the 4pm mass. I'll go alone this time, but, starting tomorrow, we'll have to go to Sunday mass regularly."

"No, I'm goin' with ya today. And I got no problem with Sunday mass so there's no problem there either."

It hit him then. He was a genius!

"Ya know, we'll have ta have us a nice honeymoon." Isabel perked up at that. "I was thinkin', since ya ain't comin' back t'Portugal any time soon after this stint, why don't ya choose a place ya'd like t'spend some time in? Just keep in mind it's gotta be secluded. No neighbours, no parties, no nuthin'. It'll still have t'be close enough to a hospital, just in case somethin' happens, and there can't be no criminality. Think ya can find us a nice spot?"

The woman laughed, delighted, obviously not aware she'd be choosing a place for her to spend the rest of her pregnancy in.

"I'll find us the perfect spot!" She promised. "And to make sure you really like it, I'll show you all my research and you can tell me exactly what you want and don't want. How does that sound?"

"Great. That settles it!"

And as for partying all night long, he'd find a way to put an end to that. He'd let her sing before the dinner sarted. After dinner, she could sing a couple more songs, and then they'd have an early night.

"You know, I'm getting hungry. Aren't you hungry?"

Creed hesitated. She really should rest a bit longer.

"Why don't I go out an' get a pizza or somethin' while ya take a lil' nap?"

She grimaced.

"I'm craving fish. Grilled and with lots of Spanish sauce and good potatoes and bread and… orange. Orange cut into slices and sprinkled with dark brown sugar. Oh, how I miss orange with sugar!"

Seriously?

"Then how come ya didn't buy any oranges."

At least he was pretty sure he hadn't seen any.

"No, I didn't. I wasn't craving oranges down at the market but now… oh, I swear, I could eat a kilo of oranges and call it lunch! Tell you what, I'll get the mackerel started and then I'll stop by Dona Ana Maria's. She should have oranges."

Like hell she was!

"Ya've run around fer long enough. Get the fish started and I'll get the damn oranges."

"If you're sure. You know what to tell her, right?"

Those lines he had very well rehearsed.

"Ora viva, Dona Maria. Arranje-me aí meio quilo de laranjas que a minha Isabel está de desejo."

Isabel laughed and embraced him from the back, biting the lobe of his ear.

"If I wasn't so dying for fish and oranges, I'd fix another hunger that's biting me."

Oh, yeah?

"The grocer's ain't that far, an' the fish is gonna take a while, won't it? 'Cause I ain't gonna let ya go around hungry fer nuthin'."

She jumped off the bed and got her purse.

"Oh, by the way, Saturday is cleaning day, so I'll be doing some cleaning in the afternoon. If you don't want to put up with the vacuum cleaner, you may want to go for a walk."

He got the money.

"I thought ya was gonna be gettin' some rest. An' don't ya clean the place every freakin' day?"

"No, that's just basic tidying so it doesn't accumulate for the weekend. If not for that, I'd spend much longer cleaning on Saturdays and then it would be a real effort. The vacuum isn't any trouble at all."

If that was the case, he was definitely leaving. He'd sit down at an outdoor café and listen in on people, to have a more grassroot take on folks, to see if it matched up with what Isabel kept telling him. He'd take the poetry book, since he wasn't really capable of reading that much into some of the poems, though others were straightforward. They were all so very airy! Politics might be boring, but at least there weren't as many undertones and conflicting interpretations. He might have given Isabel the idea he was actually well read, but he had no intention to reveal it took effort and concentration to understand some stuff.

Creed opened the door as Isabel started getting pots in the kitchen. As he climbed down the stairs, he felt a sudden urge to take off. Sure, he had only gotten back from Canada about four days ago but… it had been some damned eventful days and he needed to get some air. He'd check his emails and see if there was a nice job proposition. There probably weren't many emails, since he hadn't been taking any jobs regularly and that tended to put a dampener on requests. In fact, he should head over to one of those new forums they had in the dark net and see what all the hype was about. It had to be a short thing, no more than four days, preferably something that could be done in two or three days.

* * *

Original sentence:

"Ora viva, Dona Maria. Arranje-me aí meio quilo de laranjas que a minha Isabel está de desejo."

Translation:

"Hey there, Mrs Maria [in Portuguese, it's usually the first name that's used with titles rather than the surname]. Get me half a kilo of oranges, will you, because my Isabel is having cravings."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	27. Lisbon: Spending Time Together

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **27\. Lisbon: Spending Time Together**

 _You know I don't like to annoy you with my troubles, but are you near New York and happen to have a few days off work? I've got one girl being constantly harrassed and I could really use your expertise._

 _Love,_

 _Ruth_

The prolonged gong of a pot lid falling had Creed cringing.

"Sorry about all that noise!" Isabel called out.

She was still cooking. Ever since their return from the Sunday Mass… well, since finishing lunch, but ever since then, she hadn't stopped cooking.

"It's for the party, tomorrow night," she'd said. "I'm helping Dona Lúcia with the pastries."

It turned out that the one night they couldn't leave too early was on Wednesday, the 13th of June; however, there would be partying on Monday and Tuesday, too.

"But we'll leave early on those nights," she'd told him without prompting. "It's on Wednesday that we have to shine."

He had told her to forget the cooking and get some rest. Didn't she have to work on her knitting or something, since she'd seduced some old lady to teach her to knit? Save her strength for the upcoming evenings. Instead, she'd opened his book about pregnancy and pointed out pregnant women should keep active.

"Sitting for too long is not healthy," she'd further stressed. "And Dona Júlia is not teaching me to knit; she's teaching me to sew and make complex garments that fit properly. She's a seamstress, above all."

"Then why were knitting yesterday?"

"Because _she_ insisted on it! It's not what I'm really interested in learning. Anyway, what I must do is keep active but have plenty of short breaks."

She had been making a show of it, too. She'd set the alarm to ring every hour so she could have a ten minute break lying down. He wasn't happy, but the book did say to remain active.

Had to shine on Wednesday! What she had to do was to worry about her state, was what she had to. He was just getting so fed up with all the circus!

Creed growled at the thick booklet the priest had given him. He'd lied, obviously. He'd checked previously what it took to become a Catholic and he'd been shocked at how complex it was. If he said he wasn't baptised, for instance, he'd have to wait almost a year. In fact, he wouldn't be officially a Catholic till next year's Lent! Not likely. Instead, he'd confessed he'd been born into a Christian family – he couldn't recall the denomination, but it was not Catholic – and that he hadn't turned away from the church till he was in his late teens.

"I just couldn't see the appeal," he'd explained. "But Isabel… Isabel's really opened my eyes."

He'd gone on to express his newborn zeal for the Virgin Mary, too. Especially Our Lady of Fatima. The priest had been impressed by the fact Creed wanted badly to go to Fatima's Sanctuary but refused to do so till he became a Catholic and got married. He'd be too ashamed to go there the way he was now, Creed explained, since he was living in sin. Something else that had particularly impressed the priest: he wanted to marry Isabel before the baby bump was too visible.

"It's killing me inside," Creed had confessed, "to think my son will be born out of wedlock. And I don't want Isabel to suffer because I was too stupid to take this step earlier. If I could, I'd marry her today… but, first, I owe it to her and to my unborn son to become a faithful catholic. Help me set this right, Father."

It had worked like a charm! Though, unfortunately, there was a ton of things Creed was going to have to learn well enough to parrot them out on cue. Well, at least he didn't really have to memorise Scripture. Catholicism had to have a perk over Protestant churches.

But it was still grating on his nerves. He needed a breather!

 _I may be able to stop by at the end of the week, either Friday or Saturday._

 _Vic_

It should be something quick. Go in, kill whoever was pestering the girl, and return. Two to three days, at most, trip included. Maybe he'd add another couple of days and hang out with some of the guys at Satan's Club. It would have the added perk of missing next week's Sunday Mass.

"And that's it for today, my love!"

Creed quickly changed tabs as Isabel came closer.

"What's it?"

"The cooking and the kitchen cleaning," she sat down on the couch next to him. "You're still watching the news?"

He grimaced and got the TV remote. Portugal was a small country and didn't have that many news to justify a whole channel dedicated to it. It meant they were constantly rehashing the same insignificant news, with the same stories, the same interviews. He didn't even pay attention to the blabber after an hour or so anymore. In fact, he was also fed up with the language and not fully understanding it. He zapped around till he came across a zombie TV show. At least they didn't dub stuff, so he simply ignored the Portuguese subtitles and enjoyed something in his native language.

Next to him, Isabel got rid of her slippers and knelt on the couch, her body turned to him while her head was twisted towards the TV.

"Do you like this type of shows? I always think they're dumb. The way most people act, they should all die in the first week of the zombie epidemics."

Creed chuckled. Wasn't that the greatest truth ever!

"At least they ain't passin' it off as horror," he said in English, hoping the woman would get the hint and give him a linguistic break.

When Isabel didn't answer, he glanced her way and frowned.

"Is that any way fer ya ta be sittin'? Ya gonna end up with a pain in yer neck or in yer back. Ya're gonna have enough backaches without ya causin' 'em from sittin' all twisted like that."

The woman lifted an eyebrow and was about to say something but then breathed out and sat properly.

"Happy?" She asked in Portuguese.

"No," he grumbled. "Shouldn't ya practise yer English a bit so ya'll be able ta speak properly when we goes back t'Canada?"

The woman flashed him a mocking grin and carried on in Portuguese: "You forbade me from using English while we were in Portugal, remember, love?"

He answered with a growl and she laughed.

"Ok, ok. I speak English."

Then she turned around and lay down, her knees over the armrest and her head on his lap, forcing him to put the laptop away.

"Ya got some nerve," he grumbled.

"I have to rest," she grinned up at him. "And I never rest so good like when I am… uh… encostada a ti?"

"Leanin' on me? That's when ya rest the best, huh?"

"Yes, because you are a tower of streng and you make me feel strong and safe."

Creed let out a mocking grunt and looked at the TV.

He liked it, too. Having her head on his lap like that was… he didn't know how to explain it, but it felt good. What he liked the best, though, was when she said those stupid lines. It was good to know she appreciated him. She didn't say stuff like that very often, but when she did, she sometimes praised him in a number of different ways. Ocasionally, praise ended in sex, but that wasn't what he liked about it. It was the praise itself. How many people praised him and really meant it, after all? Being hailed as an efficient killer didn't count.

A bunch of zombies swarmed a car with the protagonists inside. Well, he didn't really know if they were the protagonists, but he guessed they were. Protagonists are usually the ones doing the stupid moves in zombie flicks.

"Burros," Isabel grumbled to herself.

Dumbasses? Did that mean she was watching the show and wasn't going to compliment him anymore?

"They should all die," he grunted, half-pissed.

"Duh," she answered. "If de zombies are so slow, why get in de car if dey can just walk faster?"

"Well, the zombies may be slow, but they're probably more resistant. They're too dead ta feel tired."

Isabel laughed.

"Too dead to feel hungry, too. If are almost no people, what dey eat?"

"Too dead ta feel hungry," he echoed in a chuckle. "D'ya know what else is stupid? 'Em zombies bite ya t' turn ya, but dey don't eat ya. Makes no nevermind whether they're dead or alive, if they's gonna be movin' about, they have t'get energy off somewhere. No one's body can move without energy. If they don't get it from eatin'… sooner or later they'd just hav'ta shut down."

"Oh, I know!" She slapped his knee lightly. "Dey get de energy when dey decompose. So, dey only stop moving when dey decompose completely."

"As long as this TV show's been goin', the zombies should'ave all turned ta walkin' skeletons by now."

They both laughed at that. On the screen, one of the guys managed to get the car moving. Were the writers of these shows aware that gas will go bad in less than a year?

"That car would never have started workin' in real life," he grumbled. "They could at least make an effort t'make this stuff believable."

"Nah," Isabel chuckled. "If was believable, it wouldn't be a comedy."

Good point.

"Hey, are zombies real?"

Huh? What kind of question was that. Creed frowned down at her as Isabel made herself more comfortable to look up at him. She got a hold of his hand and put it over her chest, as if he needed an invitation.

"Mutants didn't exist in my world, but here exist. And zombies?"

A sudden memory had Creed laugh.

"Oh, I've met a few!"

As expected, his woman's eyes shone and she awarded him all of her attention.

"Say to me," she asked.

"Well, not zombies like in this flick, but if ya count zombies as dead folks who move like they're alive, then yeah, I've come across a few."

"Don't provoke!" She slapped his arm sharply, a wide grin making her real pretty. "Who were dey? How did you kill dem?"

He loved that, the absolute attention she showered him with. As if his tales were the best thing ever, which they mostly were, the ones he told her, at least.

"First of all, they were nuthin' like those zombies. They weren't rotting, they weren't slow, they weren't dumb… nuthin' like TV."

"Wait, deixa-me adivinhar," and he did give her a moment to guess, "dey were soldiers and someone contact dem to attack you, because normal people can't."

"No. They was a bunch of old geezer scientists that figured a way to transplant their minds into the bodies of young soldiers so they could carry on makin' experiences."

"Wait, you mean, almost like… like Frankenstein?"

"Yeah, well, the result was pretty much Frankenstein-ish. The soldiers whose bodies they took over were dead and continued dead. They could barely feel pain, their skin was so hard not even my claws could penetrate it… real Frankenstein monsters, yeah. Only they smelled dead. Real zombie-like."

"So… you were contact to kill dem?"

"No, I was mindin' my own business, had just finished a job actually, when I first smelled 'em. First thing on my mind was precisely zombies but that didn't make no sense so I went over ta see what was goin' on."

"And?"

And he'd saved Bonnie.

The late afternoon light was shining through the windows, bringing out greenish speckles in Isabel's eyes. Gunshots were going wild on the TV, engines speeding hard and croaking into a mechanical death in turns, screams. It reminded him of all the shooting at Ruth's, the charges going off, and then Bonnie…

"Difficult fight, hun?"

She said it quietly. He could see she was curious, she still wanted to know the details, but she didn't press for them. She never pressed him. Another thing he liked about her.

"Yeah, ya could say that."

Creed started playing with a strand of her hair.

"But ya win de fight, right?" She offered a warm smile, comforting. "You destroy dem. You always destroy your enemies."

She had such a tendency to focus on the silver lining! Still, she was simply saying that to make him feel better. She didn't like it when he got thoughtful.

"Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, I got a job towards the end o' the week, after all that wild partyin' ya're dyin' fer."

That got her alert fast.

"Uh… Sunday too?"

"Yup. I'll be gone through the weekend; should be back on Tuesday or so. Anyway, I'll be back on time fer yer appointment on Thursday, that's a given."

He did not want her alone with the doctor, not to mention he'd rather hear what the doc said straight from the guy. Besides, she needed his soothing presence, right? He was her tower of strength, after all. The woman still frowned, though.

"But… you have de interview wid de… de padre."

"Yeah, well, the priest will simply have t'understand. A payin' job's a payin' job," even though he rarely took money from Ruth when small jobs were involved, "and he wouldn't want me ta get religion in the way o' makin' money t'put food on the table, right? Ya'll make 'im see that if he turns out t'be stubborn."

Anyway, next time he was face to face with the priest, he'd know all there was to know on Catholicism. That included the prayers plus the lythurgy, with all the responses and stuff. He'd also make sure he'd have a couple of questions to ask, so the priest could feel useful. Oh, saints!

"Hey, Nesi," and he pulled her hair to get her attention off the TV. "What're the most important saints fer me t'know about?"

"Saints? As in real Saints, not Our Ladies and… uh… Spirit Divine and things like dat?"

"Yeah, just Saints."

"The three more important of all are Sto António in 13 of June in Lisbon, S. João in 24 of June in Porto, and S. Pedro in 29 of June in Alcanena. But are more…"

"What's wi'the places?" He frowned, interrupting.

"Is de cities dat have a party for de saints."

Parties? It was all about parties for the woman!

"You have special masses, procissions, music, dancing, food and drink, sometimes bulls, quermesses – I don't know how you say dat in English, but you buy little rolls of paper and dey can have a number or not and if dey have a number you win something."

"It's kermesse, and party ain't the best word fer what ya're describin'. Maybe festival or celebration." Isabel nodded and repeated the last word. "So, basically, all ya care 'bout is the partyin' associated t'the celebration, right?"

The woman laughed.

"Depends. I usually go to de procissions."

"Processions," he corrected.

"Isso. But some celebrations are more religious dan oders. Sto António, for example, for me, and for de majority of people, I think, is principally for fun."

"Right. I'll keep those three in mind, then."

"Wait, wait, are more. In order: first you have Carnival, and uh… Quinta-feira de Cinzas? De Thursday after de Carnival? So, first is party den is religious. Den you have Week Saint, de week of Easter. I always go to Sardoal for dat, because dey have big celebrations wid beautiful processions."

"An' partyin' too, right?"

Her laughter was very likely a 'you can bet your ass there is'.

"Oh, but before dat you have S. José in Santarém, in March. 19. Dat is a very important saint because his day is de day of de fathers. Den in May you have de… uh… peregrination? People go in foot and in car to de santuary?"

"Pilgrimage?"

"Yes! Pilgrimage to Fatima wid a big, _very big_ , celebration in de 12 and 13 of May. No party, really only religious. I always go. Always. Den in Chamusca – I go wid my godmoder because she's from de area – you have Thursday of Ascension or of de… uh… espiga?"

"That's an ear of wheat, I think."

"Den you have de Divine Spirit Saint. You have a lot of places celebrating dat. Is at de same time as uh… Pentecosts? Anyway, dat's not a real saint, so doesn't count. Next: de three saints of June, of course. Uh… Sta Marta in 14 of August, in Alcanhões. Den you have Nazaré in 8 of September… oh, but dat is a Nossa Senhora, so doesn't count. But big celebration, lots of music and a very beautiful procession."

"Our Lady," he corrected.

"Hun?"

"It ain't Nossa Senhora, it's Our Lady."

"Ah, right. In Spetember you have S. Miguel, too, in Coruche. Always a place to go. And in October you have Fátima again, in de day 12 and 13, anoder pilgrimage and de procession of candles, which is de more beautiful thing you can imagine. Oh, and you have de fair of Vila Franca, and of Santarém, and of Azambuja. Are not religious but dey are big parties, I never miss."

Of course not! Why would she miss a party? He'd have to make sure the woman would choose a place outside Lisbon that had no parties and celebrations at all.

"To finish de year, you have de Fair of de Saints in Cartaxo, in de first of November – dat is de Day of All Saints and is when you go to de cemetery to put candles. Important day. And den is S. Martinho in 11 of November with de best Fair of de Horse in de entire world! Is in Golegã and I always go dere too. And den you have Advent and Christmas and is dat."

Creed shook his head.

"D'ya mean t'tell me ya went partyin' in all o' those?"

She laughed.

"Why are you so focused in parties? Half of de celebrations I said is only procession, like in Fatima."

"Half?"

"Ok, one quarter is only processions."

"And ya went to all."

"No, but a lot. I have a big family, you know. When is de party of Coruche, quer dizer, de _celebration_ of S. Miguel, I stay de weekend wid my aunt Amélia. In Nazaré, I have cousins and I stay wid dem, and I was babysitter for deir kids during de day. In Golegã, I have aunts, too. So… yes, I went to a lot."

Isabel turned suddenly serious.

"But was only to dance, ok? I never got drunk. I may like to see my friends drunk, acting all stupid, but I never drink so much dat _dey_ can laugh at me."

Good, but she was still a party girl.

"Anyway, are more celebrations, you know. You have a lot of dem in de name of Our Lady: Nazaré, Santa Iria… Oh, dat's anoder saint, too. Is a saint and de name of a city."

Creed breathed out, annoyed.

"All those Saints and Our Ladies, ya got 'em all mixed up with partyin', makes no nevermind if there's a procession or not. Somehow, I don't think that's gonna help my conversion all that much."

The woman laughed. It was so easy to make her laugh.

"De way you talk, you are going to be more catolic dan me when dis ends! Now listen, are a lot of Our Ladies, but if you are devote to one, relly devote, like me to Fátima, de oders aren't so important."

"Ya're a radical Fatima fan, is that it?"

She laughed again and he smirked. He liked her that way, relaxed and laughing, her eyes shining up at him.

"I have to tell you one thing. A very big confession and don't tell no one: I'm not very religious."

" _You_ ain't religious? Ya get up t'pray every freakin' morning!"

Isabel shook her head, amused, but if she wasn't religious, he wouldn't want to meet the real thing.

"I mean in things about real life, like… have sex before marriage, or have a baby and not be married, or make jokes wid priests and God, or… I don't know, things like dat. You see, de doctrine is all very important but de really important things are: first, God and Our Lady, and Jesus Cristo too. Dey have to be in your heart and in everything you do. Second, live an honest life, no tricking people or making bad things to people. Third, respect de ten mandaments."

"Commandments," he grunted. "But that ain't got nuthin' t'do with what the priest babbled about all afternoon, yesterday."

The woman rolled her eyes.

"Dat is church and priests, Victor. Real life is different. I learn everything from my grandmoders – dey were religious, really religious – and dey knew dat you don't confuse church, or men and women of church, wid God. I mean, how many priests go and know de women dey confess a bit too much, huh? And how evil and hypocrite de women dat spend deir life in church can be? Dat is Church and Men business. God, dat is a different story. You have to have Him in your heart and in your actions. Dat is de important. God is de only dat can judge your actions, because He knows your intentions even when you don't really know dem."

"Ok, I got it. It's no use relyin' on ya fer my conversion."

She laughed again, saying that yes, conversion had to follow the rules and the theories, but she could help with adjusting that to real life afterwards.

"What d'ya mean? I ain't really turnin' Catholic or religious or anythin'!"

Isabel put a hand over his chest, claiming she knew.

"But you have to continue pretend, right? You can't end your conversion and act like is nothing, and you can't end and go out saying what de priest says. You have to adapt all de rules to reality. And dat means you… you go to Fátima and you make a big deal about it, and we go there, we pray…"

Creed frowned.

"I ain't prayin' nuthin'!"

"Den you just pretend! I can pray of real for us two."

He growled lightly.

"What the hell gave ya the idea I wants ya prayin' fer me?"

That got her serious.

"I pray for everyone, Victor. All my friends, all my family… Is what religious people do. You pray for God to bring good things to de people you know. And because _you_ are de more important person in my life… how can I not pray for you? You crazy? Of course I pray for you!"

He still didn't like it. The woman must have noticed because she rubbed his chest lightly.

"You have a dangerous life, Victor. I always worry if you get hurt. Of course you're very strong and resistant but… you still feel pain, and people can still hurt you. I don't want dat to happen. I want dat you are always safe and happy and… and have fun and… Dat is what I pray for you. Dat you are happy and dat your enemies never find a way to hurt you."

He understood her drift now. For his enemies to really hurt him, they'd have to know Isabel existed, and that meant she would get hurt too. Way worse than he could ever get!

"Fine, pray all ya want."

Though she should really be praying for his son to be born. And to be a mutant, too. Creed glanced at the TV. The zombie show had finished and now it was the turn of a dumb chick comedy. He zapped around till he came across what seemed to be an action flick with two men posturing about in a garage. Body shop, probably car thieves or something of the sort. Should make for some interesting…

"Uh," Isabel sneered. "I hate dis."

Creed frowned. They'd seen action films on other days and she hadn't complained.

"What?"

"Dis!" She waved a hand towards the TV. "Act like dey're big bad macho man. Dis in real life means: 'please believe I'm more big and bad dan you and go away because I'm afraid to fight'."

He laughed.

"Are yõu fer real?"

"Yes, I'm real _and_ serious. A man dat knows he can deal wid any situation, a man dat is confident in himself, he doesn't need to be all throat and say 'look how strong and bad I am'. Dat means insecurity."

Creed frowned. On the TV, the guys were now punching each other.

"Hey, maybe is only me. But I grew wid dat. Are only two reasons why a man… uh, how you say in English… you know, act like a gorilla, puff de chest and insult people and all dat."

"Posturin',"

"Is only two reasons why a man does posturing: one, he is stupid and wants to fight because he thinks dat makes him more important; or two, he knows he is inferior to de oder men and wants to pretend he is better dan he is."

He'd taught a lesson or two to enough jerks on that first category. The asshole who'd picked up a wrench went down with a kick to his face.

"Maybe it _is_ only you."

"No. I see enough of dis in night parties." It always went back to partying with the woman. "A guy is all posturing when he has friends around, but when he's alone and someone answers his insults, he puts de tail between his legs and goes away. All my life, Victor, I see dis. Posturing means _coward_ ," she sneered. "And dey know dey are cowards, dat is why dey act big and bad to pretend is not."

The apparent hero hopped into a car and sped off.

"I'm more familiar with asses who just wanna start a fight an' break the furniture."

"I can't understand dat. Dey think people think dey're cool and powerful, is it? Because everyone sees what dey are: dumb and stupid. A real man only goes in a fight to teach a lesson, and he doesn't posture. He gets up, puts de oder in his place and goes back to his life. Dat's a real man."

The next scene was at a police department. Definitely car thieving.

"So ya don't wanna see this, right?"

He zapped around some more. Ah, a western! And one of those Clint Eastwood classics, too. Now that was a film worth watching.

"Have ya ever seen this one?"

Isabel turned on her side to watch.

"I don't see many films," she shrugged. "Is a cowboy film?"

Of course she didn't. With all the time she spent partying across the country, when would she have the time to watch films?

"It's called western. It's one o' Clint Eastwood's early films. The Good, the Bad an' the Ugly. It's the second of a set o' three films that made 'im famous."

"Ah, I know him. He makes de cool cowboy, right? Real fast wid de gun and only gets involved when someone makes de mistake to irritate him."

"So ya have seen his films!"

"I don't remember see an entire film, but I saw some parts. I remember de actor because I think dat's de best type of hero. Films today is all posturing; dis is more cool."

"This film is a good one. Ya just wait an' see."

He turned the volume up as the two protagonits got herded into a military camp.

"I thought you said is cowboys. Looks more like a war film."

"Uh? No, no, it ain't no war. It's just set durin' the Civil War, that's all. That's a Union camp they just got to, an' they're gonna enlist an'..." It suddenly ocurred to him she might have no idea about anything Civil War related. "Ya know 'bout the Union? Civil War, grey Confederate, blue Union?"

He felt the woman nod a yes on his lap, but he got the impression she was lying without even having to use his nose. He didn't really feel like losing half the film explaining the historical event, though, so he went along with her lie.

"Anyway, that's a Union encampment… listen t'the captain…"

Creed chuckled at the Bad drinking up.

"That's drunk courage he's got, that's why he'll make a good soldier," he explained. "Most asses gotta be drunk or high ta go in an' get 'emselves killes. Knowingly, I mean. These days, it's all from afar, no real chargin', that's why they don't need t'have 'em soldiers all spiked. But they still wanna brainwash 'em. That don't change."

The woman made herself more comfortable, a hand rubbing his leg relaxedly. It felt good, really, to watch TV with the woman like this. Sure it was fun when she was making comments too, but feeling her relaxed on his lap, just listening to him and appreciating his presence, that really was the best.

Then, on top of it, the film was good. He loved some of those lines. They rang so true, even though it was just a movie. Stupid, useless bridge, a ridiculous flyspeck on a map that must be taken, and be taken intact, no matter how many men have to die. Because, yeah, some places were key in a war or battle or what you'll have, but very often, the guys pulling the strings were simply dumb asses who didn't get what exactly they were ordering people into. And then there was the drunkeness to make up for guilt and cowardice.

"I've known a bunch o' guys like that, ya know. All cut up 'bout sendin' men inta battle t'die but way too coward t'actually do anythin' 'bout it. If ya gonna get all queasy 'bout gettin' folks killed, then the least ya can do is have the guts t'get outta the way o' people who're willin' t'do the job right. Or just have the guts t'do somethin' 'bout it 'stead o'whinin' all day long."

Creed slapped her ass as the first mortar crashed into the camp.

"There! Time fer the first attack o' the day. Though the best part is after the attack's over. Ya just wait an' see."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	28. Lisbon: Sardines

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **28\. Lisbon: Sardines**

Isabel had been nervous on Monday afternoon, when she'd headed to the street to join the party preparations right after lunch. Victor hadn't been in the best of moods, still grumbling she should be resting rather than partying, but once he'd gone out, he'd behaved. He had helped the other men set the tables and the long benches outside, then they had assembled the stage and worked through the electrical wiring of the sound system. Finally, the men had sat down at the tables, drinking beer and eating snacks to celebrate a job well done.

Isabel had come out a couple of times to ostensibly prepare this and that, but in reality to check on him. Once they had sat down, she had started coming to his side and adding to the banter, though she kept it mild. As if he had always lived in the neighbourhood, Victor swapped manly jokes and played cards amidst coarse banter. She was so proud of him!

Then, as the afternoon morphed into evening, it had been time to get the sardines. The fridge in the tabern wasn't large enough to keep all the sardines plus the meat, so much of the load for the evening had been stored in a fridge which a family friend had in his patio shed. The narrow winding streets, crowded with preparations for the three days of celebrations, didn't welcome cars and vans, so the crates of fish must be carried on capable shoulders. Naturally, Isabel offered Victor's more than capable ones. He must be itching to have a breather from the forced socialisation, she'd guessed.

"He can carry double what anyone else can," she'd gloated.

Mauro, Dona Lúcia's youngest son, had bet one week of free beer, next week, should he pull it off. It went without saying he had.

Meat and sardines cooking on the coal grills, Isabel had premiered the stage with half a dozen fado songs, each more traditional than the next, then she'd sat for dinner as the band hired for the evening – a group of amateur musicians – played their covers. The dance had been unofficially kicked off when random people grabbed their pairs and swirled to the middle of the street. Victor had surprised her by taking her for a spin… which had ended up as several spins, even if he ignored the fast paced rhythm of most songs, pretending they were all slows. Isabel hadn't minded, though she would have been happier if Victor had taken the chance to grab her ass a bit more often. He was way too modest in public.

It was getting dark when Isabel had told him she was just going to sing a couple more songs and then she'd call it a night. It was barely nine.

"I though you said we had to be out till midnight," he'd frowned.

"Wednesday is when we have to stay out till midnight," she'd reminded him. "So it's best to take it easy tonight."

His satisfaction had been more than obvious.

So Isabel had sung her last songs, then she'd said her good-byes, excusing herself with a headache and promising to be as good as new for Tuesday, and they had headed home. It was already dark by then, the clock being very close to reaching ten pm.

"I didn't think ya'd wanna leave this early," he said as they reached the door of their building and got the keys out.

"Why not? I don't want to get tired before the big night. Aren't you the one always saying I have to conserve my energies? Well, that's what I'm doing."

Isabel slipped into the stairwell and dashed up the steps at the fast rhythm of the music blasting outside.

"Hey, take it easy!" Isabel chuckled as she used her own keys to get inside the house with a swirl. "I don't know why ya gotta be always runnin' about."

"I'm electric!" She squealed, kicking off her shoes.

"And I want to dance…" She grinned at him and unzipped her skirt, letting her flop to the floor. "Naked."

Victor narrowed his eyes at her from the bedroom door and didn't budge. That was unusual.

"Something wrong?" She asked in English.

He shook his head after a thoughtful moment. It killed Isabel's vivacity. She stood there, in her top and her panties, looking at him. She had wanted to reward his good behaviour with a long sex session, which would also made up for the fact she was missing out on the fun outside. It wasn't that bad, swapping outside for inside, for as long as she was having fun.

Victor came closer and grabbed her chin lightly, turning her face to the side.

"Fica-te bem."

Isabel's heart stopped. He'd said that in actual Portuguese, with an actual Portuguese accent. She had never taught him that particular line, even if she had asked him whether something suited her a couple of times before. And he had never once made an effort to speak in Portuguese to her, only for the neighbours and whatnot.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Was he talking about her hair, done up in a high pony tail? Was that what suited her?

"Ya should do it like that more often," he said, back to English.

Oh, she would. She would definitely… Wait! He had never complimented her or tried to speak Portuguese to her, right? So what had changed tonight? The answer was way too obvious.

"Is dis because I wanted to leave de party early?"

Because it was, wasn't it? He was rewarding her as some sort of… conditioning. She acted the way he wanted her to, and he was nice and sweet.

"Is dat why you say dat?"

The man cocked an eyebrow and smirked, unamused. Yeah, she'd called it.

"It don't mean it ain't true," he shrugged. "I like it when ya wear ya hair up like that. 'Sides, I thought ya wanted me ta be nice."

Not as an act.

"I don't want dat you are nice only because… because I…" Damn, she lacked the words in English!

"It ain't just 'cause. Ya made me happy tonight, so I wanna see ya happy in return. Ain't that what ya're always sayin'? That ya wanna make me happy when I make you happy? It's basically the same thing, ain't it? Only it's in reverse."

"I don't pretend," she frowned. "I do things for you because I really _feel_ lik…"

"Give it a rest, woman! Ya think _I_ was gonna lie just t'make ya happy? Don't flatter yerself. I said ya looked nice 'cause ya do look nice and I figured ya'd be happy if I said so."

Oh. Ok then. Ok. This was good. It meant he was playing along. You make me happy, I make you happy. Not with lies, but with little gestures and a few words. It was good. It was excellent! Isabel smiled.

"Fica-me bem, é?"

She smiled coyly and Victor's face relaxed into a grin.

"Fica-te _muito_ bem."

Perfect accent again. It suits you very well. She'd start wearing ponytails every day!

She felt him slip a claw into the base of the pony tail and rip the hair elastic, sending a shiver of excitement to her loins. His fingers ran through her long hair and Isabel moaned, leaning onto to him. Then he bit her ear, his hand twisting her hair into a taut coil, and she undid his belt buckle feverishly. She had been looking forward to spending the rest of the night in his arms; now she just wanted him inside her.

Victor complied and got rid of his jeans and of his shirt, but as Isabel quickly got herself stark naked, he kept his boxers on and embraced her waist, pulled her to him.

"Let's dance," he said.

Seriously? He turned her on and then he wanted to dance?

"Why don't we dance on the bed," she asked, hooking a couple of fingers into the waistband of the boxers.

"Stop it," he pulled her hands higher, till they were on his back. "Ya said ya wanted t'dance, so start dancin'."

O-kay. He didn't wait for her: grabbing her by the waist with one hand, he got a hold of the other hand and took off on a slow motion waltzy dance.

"You are a teasing… uh…" She really should think twice before she started speaking in English. "What is de masculine of minx?"

Victor laughed and swirled her over to the bed. Isabel sat down and tried to pull him onto her by flopping backwards, but he let go of her and sat on the bed next to her, rubbed her belly gently. Did this mean no sex tonight? Because if it did, it would be the first night ever. He kissed the unexistent baby bump and placed his ear on it. Yupe. No sex. Damn!

"Sing fer me," he said after a while.

"Hun?"

"Ya didn't sing my song."

Isabel chuckled.

"It's my best song," she said. "I'm leaving it for Wednesday so I can impress as many people as possible."

"Sing."

"Ok. Let me get comfortable, first."

She sat up but Victor pulled her off the bed, opened the cover and motioned her to get in.

"So ya don't get cold."

He climbed into the bed and before she knew it, she was reclined on his naked chest and he was playin with her hair.

"I can't sing like this, love," she kissed his chest, enjoying his arm over her shoulder. "I need to sit up so I can fill my lungs and…"

"No. Ya don't need t'wake the dead nor anythin'. Just sing fer me."

She sang in a whisper at first, but the position was still not comfortable. When the second stanza was over, she managed to straddle his legs. Now she could look him in the eyes as she sang 'since the hour I saw you, oh my beloved soldier'. He did not smile. He gazed into her eyes with restrained attention and Isabel was certain, for a fleeting moment, that he might actually like her. Maybe not love, never love!, but he might actually be fond of her.

He responded to her kiss passionately when the song was finished. It was a different passion, though, a different urgency. For once, his claws did not roam her body and, although she missed their erotic feel, his touch was… loving? It was not the restrained gentleness of before, but gentle nonetheless. Isabel responded in kind, neither biting nor scratching. His thrusting was intense but not rough and, when he came, he called her name with an unusual abandonment.

'Ah, Inês,' he half sighed, half purred in Spanish. "Mi Nesita."

Then he nuzzled her neck, placed a protective hand over her belly and stayed like that, breathing in deeply. His weight on her shoulder was uncomfortable, but she'd have willingly supported his full weight throughout the night if need be. Isabel dared to lay a hand over the nape of his neck and caress his head. He responded with a drowsy set of kisses before quieting down anew.

If she didn't think too much about it, she could almost pretend this was what every night would feel like if the man loved her.

* * *

Creed didn't start grumbling about how early Isabel wanted to join that day's party preparations till after lunch. Fortunately, the woman mostly ignored him, so he kept on grumbling under his breath instead of getting angry.

He was probably going to spend the afternoon playing cards and drinking beer, anyway. Monday had been busy, setting up the stage especially, but it had also been relaxing. It had been clear that, although some guys laid back to avoid actually working, most of the men involved in setting up the gig had been quietly competing to see who did more and better. Once Creed had become aware of the undercover competition, he'd quickly jumped in. Not to gloat, but he'd aced it. There had been only one jerk which had had the upperhand on him, but that was simply because the guy was an electrician and the sound system involved skills Creed had never particularly bothered with. Sound and electric system aside, he'd definitely aced it. And he had even been courteous about it.

It was almost a pity he wouldn't have to actually work on anything that afternoon. Not that cards and beer didn't sound great. Especially since the prize of the unspoken competition was apparently to be held in higher-esteem and get a preferential treatment. He knew damn well that playing cards was another popularity competition, unfortunately his card games had always been on a different level entirely. Creed hadn't made the best impression in the first few rounds, but once he'd gotten the hang of the level of banter being thrown about, and the level of coarseness, too, he'd quickly recovered his standing.

When Creed and Isabel left the house, he put an arm over her shoulders, as usual, and chewed over the idea of kissing her as she entered the tabern and he remained outside. On the one hand, he wanted to further advertise she belonged to him, to imprint in any man around she was off limits to as much as look at; on the other hand, it would make him look like a love-blind jackass. On Monday, he'd been acutely aware of an undercurrent of mockery every time Isabel stopped by with a beer or a plate of snacks, and it had pissed him. At least, until he had gone on that stupid errand to get the sardines and won the bet with Mauro. For a moment, the mockery had felt a bit like covert jealousy and he had been less ruffled by it.

True to Creed's expectations, most men of the previous day were sitting at the tables outside. Pressured to make a choice, kiss or let go, he simply let her go. Isabel, however, slapped his ass with a smiley 'have fun' that made his blood boil. In front of the damn losers, every single one of them scrutinising their every gesture! As if she was the one who… he didn't know, but he was not about to let that type of insult slide. He grabbed her arm almost instinctively and pulled her into a kiss that clearly showed who was who in their mock relationship. The nerve of the woman!

He was still a bit self-conscious as he sat and asked who was winning. Didn't even register the answer.

The afternoon dragged a bit awkwardly, in between jokes and reports of the night's events after Creed's departure. Someone asked about the wedding date and Creed, Isabel's isntructions loud on his ears, had taken the moment to say they'd be having lunch at Mariana's and feel free to stop by to get a free meal only if they went to the church first _and_ brought proper gifts, because he'd personally kick out party crashers who didn't fit those conditions.

"Drinks are welcome, by the way."

As promised by Isabel, both invitation and reference to drinkable gifts won him applause. One of the guys wasted no time and went inside to swipe a crate of beer which he dropped at his feet.

"Here's your wedding gift. Write down the day so I don't miss it, will you?"

"I'm writing that down as Dona Lúcia's gift, smartass, since she's the one paying for it."

Creed had hoped the conversation would run elsewhere as the group settled down to play, but it twisted instead to other couples and weddings, most of the references being to personal events. There were mocking stabs to each man's wedding and amorous adventures. Creed could not keep up with that and fell onto the background. Petty tales, he tried not to sneer, from petty lives. Each man got at least a stab, which was promptly answered by a reference to the stabber's own unfortunate exploits, if possible, or by mockery over fortunate exploits.

"Victor!"

Creed was so relieved at a chance of an excuse to abandon the group, he had trouble hiding it. Smiling devilishly on her way to him, Isabel jingled a lonely key in her hand.

"Come on! We have to get the sardines for tonight." She leaned on his shoulders and grinned cheekily at the company. " _Someone_ has to work."

He did not like her saucy taunts at the men, especially as they welcomed such provocations with cocky remarks, which she dismissed with a cheerful disdain the men seemed to enjoy even more. Couldn't she see they were leering at her?

He pulled her by a hand as she laughed at Tomé's comeback. Why the fuck was she laughing at a fifty-year-old geezer's stupid would-be-jokes, anyway?

"What can I say? He's the only one here strong enough to carry a pair of fish crates. Old age isn't bringing him down into the street's team of invalids any time soon."

Isabel swirled and embraced his waist.

"Sorry to take you away from the game," she said.

He grabbed her shoulder tight.

"I can't fuckin' understand why ya insist in flirtin' with every fuckin' man ya come across," he growled in English.

"Shows dat I have spirit and den dey envy you more," she eyed him sideways with a haughty smirk. "And, very important, I _have_ spirit. You think what? I pretend I'm shy and quiet like a scared frail? No. Dey can all uh… salivate after me if dey want. Doesn't mean nothing to me. But I am happy if dat happens, because den dey envy you, and I want dat every man envies you."

Creed frowned. Did that mean…

"Ya're actin' like a slut on purpose?"

"First of all," she hissed back to Portuguese, "that is not 'slut' behaviour, got it? That is normal and acceptable behaviour for a woman who is sure of herself and knows how to keep people in their place. The only reason anyone will shut up and act shy when someones throws them a joke is if they're too insecure or coward to talk back and shut the joker up. And that is not me, love. Not in a million years! They can flap their tongues all they want, that I will still have the last word. The devil would laugh the day I let a joker end up with the upperhand over me!"

Creed growled but didn't say anything. He had accepted the locals had a different way of behaving and that Isabel knew how to handle them to the greatest effect. He might not like it, but her explanations of social cues and behaviours rang true once he observed the people. Still…

"Ya have better not act that way when we go back t'Canada."

"Fine," she shrugged. "But I will not keep my mouth shut if someone throws the wrong comment at me, love, even if it is a man. I have a reputation to keep, and it's not one of a helpless dummie."

"Don't ya worry. Any guy who dares talkin' t'ya will only do so once."

They went the rest of the way in gruff silence. As they got to the door that opened onto the patio where the sardine fridge awaited, Isabel smirked at him and unlocked the door.

"Ó da casa," she threw out her voice making his ears almost ring. "Viemos às sardinhas!"

"D'ya really hav'ta shout that much?"

Victor headed to the shed.

"Sh," she slid a hooked finger into his back pocket, pulling him backwards. "You hear someone answer?"

Creed frowned and paid attention. He could hear snippets of conversations in nearby houses whose windows were open; he could hear dogs and pigeons; he could hear an old woman wobble down the street, on the other side of the once more closed patio door.

"I don't think there's nobody home," he shrugged. "Why?"

Isabel grinned widely and he got a sudden insight.

"Was this why ya boasted 'bout how strong I was, yesterday?"

The woman laughed and slid her hand further into his pocket.

"You going to say dat wasn't a good idea?"

"Ya're the fuckin' devil, ya know that?" But he grinned as he said it. How long could they dally around before having to show up with the sardines? "Get yer ass in the shed."

It was a cramped space, especially because of a wide table that took up much of the area. Isabel swirled ahead of him and winked.

"I'm more than ready," she said in Portuguese then stuck out her tongue at him. "I didn't tell you because you're always complaining I'm a tease."

He grabbed her by her ponytail and puller her to him, kissing her hard.

"That's 'cause ya _are_ a fuckin' tease." He unzipped his jeans. "And I ain't complainin'."

The woman had probably meant it as a quickie, but Creed prolongued it as much as he could. He pushed the table to one side of the shed and pressed her against the fridge for some extra privacy. These old buildings were irregular and mostly built on top of each other. It wasn't easy to make sure they wouldn't be seen from a window somewhere.

"Let them see," Isabel had laughed, biting his ear hard. "Give them an eyeful."

"Are ya serious?"

The woman shrugged.

"We're engaged, we're not in a public space… if anyone can see us, they're the ones in the wrong, not us."

"What happened to 'oh, what if someone shows up'?"

She laughed and slipped to English: "Is your fault! You make me sex crazy and you make me want take risks and… oh, I don't know, but is your fault."

He grabbed her ponytail and pulled it down, exposing her neck. Isabel moaned even before he started nibbling it.

"Ya like it when I pull yer hair, huh?"

He jerked the ponytail lightly and enjoyed the expression on her face.

"Harder," she moaned in Portuguese. "Grab my hair near the head and pull it taut but not hard enough to hurt."

He unsheathed his claws and let them glide across her scalp before firmly pulling her ponytail. She was pretty much melting in his arms, but enough with the foreplay.

* * *

In the end, they had time for nearly half a dozen quickies. Then, in the not far distance, a church started tolling and Isabel grew alarmed.

"Shit! What if Dona Lúcia sends someone to see what happened to us?"

She got her handbag for some wet wipes to clean herself and said their story was that they had gotten lost. Creed couldn't help laughing.

"Ya lose yer nerve real fast, woman! D'ya think she won't guess what we were up to?"

Isabel reached up to give a peck on his lips and explained it was different.

"I don't know the people who live in this area and I don't care what they think of me; but I know Dona Lúcia and her sons. It's embarrassing to be caught red-handed."

So it was only embarrassing if it was someone she knew, huh?

"Hurry, Victor!"

She opened the door of the fridge and he got the crates out, before following her out of the patio.

"Hey, Nesi, com'ere."

Isabel got close enough for him to put an arm around her shoulders again then asked him if he couldn't switch back to Spanish. People could hear him.

"Quit buggin' me," but he did switch to Spanish. "Are you going to sing for me tonight? Because you didn't sing absolutely anything for me yesterday."

He didn't say he had missed it. And he sure as hell would never have admitted he loved it when she sang for him, all smiles and devotion. Especially because being the recipient of her undying love made the woman look sappy, not him.

"I have to sing traditional party songs, love. It's Santo António! It's not the same as singing at Mariana's. But I'll ask the guys to play… uh… let me think. I won't confess not even to the walls, Mariquinhas goes to the fountain… it's a love song, sort of. My Love from Afar, you'll like that one. Only it's a new one, so I'm not sure if they know how to play it, but I'll talk to the guys and see if we can arrange something. Does it sound ok?"

Not, it didn't.

"You could sing the one where you die in my arms."

She giggled, which didn't help his mood any.

"One of these days," she said, "I'll buy a guitar and then I'll practise till I can play and sing it just for you, no one else around."

He'd like that.

"I'll buy you one tomorrow."

Isabel laughed and squeezed his ass.

"You're the best, Victor."

Yeah, he knew. But it was still nice having someone saying it out aloud.

He'd rather the party had already started. After fooling around in the shed, Creed wouldn't mind dancing with the woman for a bit. Sure, he had to take it easy so she didn't get too tired with the exercise, especially after spending the afternoon working around, but it didn't matter. His woman's scent was slowly becoming the most gratifying scent he could think of and holding her in his arms, safe and warm, was both soothing and exciting.

Besides that, when the street got crowded, everyone dancing or drinking and eating, there was no one keeping track of his movements. Most of the crowd was a stranger to the street, the locals were too busy having fun themselves, and many of the party-goers were way too scandalous for the local conservative ways. There was sucking face and frenzied groping, not to mention a bit of dry humping once the alcohol weighed in. Creed could embrace the woman, kiss and feel her ass all he wanted because, being so discrete in comparison, nobody looked at him twice and so nobody would later mock him for being mushy.

He recalled the previous night. She had been surprised when he'd taken her out for a dance, even if she had wanted to jump around to the fast rhythm and he'd forced her into a slow pace. He remembered her head leaning onto his chest as her hands rested on his ass and he held her tighter against his side. That had been surprisingly nice. Sure, he had enjoyed dancing with her naked in the bedroom, but, believe it or not, that hadn't been as nice and he couldn't figure it out why.

Dancing naked! The woman was nuts. Creative, but nuts.

Isabel had quickly seen what he was doing. Always smart when she shouldn't! But maybe it was better that way. If she knew he'd be nice when she gave up her wishes for his sake, maybe that would work as extra motivation.

In fact, he'd rather it was ten pm already. He wanted to take the woman to bed and just lay lazily by her side, holding her in his arms, the way they had done the night before. He wanted to fuck her gently, taking his sweet time.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	29. Lisbon: Sto António

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **29\. Lisbon: Sto. António**

It was Wednesday! The night was young and would go on till dawn. Unfortunately for Isabel, she'd have to leave the party at midnight, or earlier, if Victor got it into his head it was too much for her pregnancy. Really, that man took everything to the extreme!

It was almost dinner time and she felt electrified. In Mariana's kitchen, food was being cooked feverishly and Isabel, always careful, got a tray of snacks and headed to the tables.

"Another round," she called out, setting the tray next to Victor's game. Bisca, it seemed.

It amazed her how good he was: he hadn't known the Portuguese games and Isabel had had to teach him, but he'd become pretty much an expert in no time. Taking the chance to get a breather and show off to Victor she was taking it easy, she sat next to him on the bench and watched the game for a few minutes, joining the joking when appropriate but mostly enjoying being in the background.

The loudspeakers, never mute throughout the day and the evening, started a cheerful song and she rocked to and fro to it. Victor put down his cards for a moment to grab a handful of snacks and glanced at her.

"Working hard?"

He said one word with perfect Portuguese accent, but the other was pure Spanish.

"Just pretending," she chuckled. "And back to it I go. More beer?"

"Yeah, bring some."

She went in singing the song on the loudspeakers.

"You just can't get your hands off the man, can you, girl?"

Isabel laughed at Dona Lúcia's cheerful poke.

"As if any woman could keep her hands off a man with those looks!"

"Oh, jealous, are we? That's why you're always hovering over him."

"Ha! Jealous are the ones who failed to catch him!"

She got a crate of beer and headed out again.

Jealous… She would never have a right to be jealous. Even though they were getting married, cover or no cover, she would never be able to claim him as her own. The brothel madam, the lovers in random cities… she was no better than those. Unless Our Lady granted her the miracle of that child, that is. Then, she would have a hold over the man that no other woman could boast of. She'd be the mother of his son. Then, only then, could she feel satisfied to be the most important woman in his life, his first thought and worry. Then, only then, could the other women be jealous. Then, only then, could she let go of jealousy.

"Hey!" Isabel stopped suddenly, realising her mistake, but Victor was already on her, frowning and getting the crate off her hands. "That's heavy!"

He took the crate onto the table and got a few bottles out of it, distributed them to the other guys.

"I thought you were getting bottles, not crates." He placed the crate on the bench and got Isabel's wrist, pulling her back to the old tabern. "I'll get them for you. Come on."

"Hey, Mauro!" Dona Lúcia called out from the counter, laughing, the moment they got in. "You don't have to go get the sardines. Isabel just got your replacement. Now we just have to see whether they're going to get lost again on their way back."

Isabel laughed, flushed.

"We're just getting the crates of beer, but if you want us to go get those sardines… Victor does need to do something in exchange for all the beer he downs."

Not having heard her answer, Mauro answered his mother: "On their way back? What's the fun of getting lost with those boxes of sardines? They get lost is on their way up!"

"Keys!" Victor called out and Dona Lúcia told him to go get them from the broken safe in the kitchen.

"Let's see if my guide has finally learnt her way around the neighbourhood."

Isabel laughed out loud, her face still flushed. Yes, this was the life.

* * *

Dinner was over and Isabel was swirling in Victor's arms. Ah, this really was the life! Music, food, and happiness, all in Victor's arms. If only it could last forever.

The song ended and she failed to cheer the musicians, too busy getting her arms around his neck and pulling herself up to kiss him. He groped her ass and held her tight against him.

"A break, now?" He asked.

To Hell with breaks! But the man seemed happy, not a scowl, not a frown… well, at least not since her beer crate slip.

"I have a better idea," she whispered, slapping his ass. "Let's get beers."

They got a crate. Victor put it on a shoulder and allowed her to drag him towards the stage. She had to really press through the crowd, squeezing through the dancing people, some already drunk, others simply wild.

"What are you planning, this time, mi Nesita?"

Isabel slapped his arm immediately.

"Shush! People can hear you!"

"With all the noise and beer? Doubt it."

Isabel shook her head.

"I'm going to cut in when they finish this song, or then I will be singing much too late."

She had sung in between courses, during dinner, but that had been fado, and she hadn't yet gone for the one Victor liked, the one where she died in his arms. She thought it was cute, the way he summarised the lyrics. It gave her the impression he did want her to be in his arms for as long as they lived. Although, obviously, that was not what the man had in mind when he said it. Anyway, she was leaving that one to end her performance at the party, just before returning to the house. She was gambling that he would want to hear it before the night was over.

Naturally, hearing Isabel say she wanted to sing before the night got later pleased Victor immensely and he pulled her up, sitting her up on the side of the stage for better access as the song dragged on. Once the song ended, though, he put an end to the making out with a slap on her thigh.

"Break in, go on!"

"Uncap those beers!" And she jumped up, Victor passing them on to her.

"Guys!" She called out, three beers in her hand. "You've more than deserved a break to wet your throats. Don't you all think so? Cheers for the band!"

They were amateurs, too, either neighbours or friends of neighbours. Isabel had met them on Monday, when she had sung a couple of fados with Mariana's usual guitar players, and she had half organised a take over with them. She got the guitar player, the guy in the drums and the woman at the synthesizer a beer each. The singer and his two backups were going over to Victor and the crate.

"I'm kidnapping you guys now. Ready?"

The group nodded and got ready for the first song Isabel had chosen for the first take over of the night. In the meantime, she turned to the audience and threw her voice out.

"Hey, I'm taking over the stage! Lovers and sweethearts out there, this is all for you because that is what Sto António is all about: LOVE!"

She kicked off with a slow one. Sung by a male artist, the lyrics were fortunately genderless, and Isabel hoped Victor could follow them. He had trouble following fast paced songs. The song gave her plenty of opportunities to turn her gaze from the audience to the side, where Victor still stood with the half-empty crate.

He hadn't known the details, obviously. She had wanted to surprise him. Sure, it hadn't gone that well last time she'd tried to surprise him, but it was different, this time. These were pop songs and she'd carefully chosen extra obvious love songs that were above all full-fledged declarations of love.

"I don't know what happened to me," she sang to the audience, eyes closed to better feel the strength of her own love. "It was a spell! What happened to me?"

Then she turned herself fully to Victor, stretched out a hand, smiled: "To love someone as much as I love you."

The next song was lively: show me your true colours, the darker the better, 'cause I want to love you despite all that darkness. Just don't try to trick me, I will love more and more deeply when I know all about your dark secrets. She would explain the lyrics to him later, because he probably wouldn't understand them, fast as the words flowed, and Isabel thought he might actually like their meaning.

If Victor hadn't seemed much taken over by the first song, the second got a smirk on his face, as he supported his weight on his elbows, on the side of the stage, and got to drinking a beer. The third one was cheesy, she admitted, and Victor shook his head in mock disapproval, but it was the last one of the take over. She gave the mic back to the band singer and ran over to the edge of the stage, jumping down into his arms and into a long kiss as she was applauded by the crowd.

"See?" She pressed before he could say anything. "Everyone will remember us for years! I said this was the night to make our cover story stick for good."

"But now you need a break," he insisted.

"And a drink, too. Show me the way, love!"

* * *

Isabel was sitting on Victor's lap, both forgotten amidst the compact crowd. The man was very modest when it came to public shows of affection, but had apparently relaxed enough to be making out in the middle of the street. Well, not exactly in the middle of the street: he'd wrestled a chair from some guy and taken it to a nook where an alley opened into the street, to the left of Mariana's. Since most people were focused on the sardines, the beer and the stage, further off to the right of the old tabern, they were effectively on the edge of the partying.

"So, this is the type of partying you chased over the country, is it?"

Isabel had laughed.

"Not exactly, love. I was usually in the middle of the dancing floor, and singing too. I sometimes took over the stage, but only if they weren't exactly big names, those have security, and also only when I knew the bands. It wouldn't work well if I crashed their party and couldn't sing the songs they played, right?"

"Guess not."

Isabel had sensed what was coming and tried to keep him from going that way.

"Tired of sitting? Do you want a beer and another spin? I'm getting restless!"

"Haven't you danced enough?"

She kissed him with a casual 'never' and checked the time. It was barely ten pm.

"You're so excited you won't even notice if you are tired. I've told you…"

Isabel shut him up with a kiss then broke it off with a fretful ok.

"But I have to take over the band one last time. Three songs, again."

"So what are you waiting for?"

Isabel got up and waited for the man to lead her back to the stage. On her way, though, she groped him shamelessly, which got his immediate attention.

"I love this song!" She told him. "Please, dance with me! One last song."

He must have growled, only there was too much noise to hear it. Nevertheless, he gave in. He even stuck around for two songs, though the rhythm was frenetic and he settled into a slow type of dance. Whatever! Once upon a time, she'd hated slow dancing; these days she loved it. Not her first choice, true, but she had still learnt to love it.

Isabel leaned her head on his chest, hands well into his back jeans pockets, and focused on the sound of his heart, steady and comforting, underneath the wild drumming. She could have stayed like that forever.

"Nesita."

Again?!

"Victor, stop that! I told you, people can hear you!"

The man shrugged and pointed towards the stage. Isabel breathed out angrily. What the hell was wrong with the man, calling her by her nickname in public! He knew any Portuguese person would connect Nesita to Inesita and Inês in two seconds. She did not want anyone but him knowing her true name, and Victor knew it full well.

As punishment, she talked to the band to sing two extra songs, and none of them were love songs. She didn't even look at Victor, although he was standing in front of her, at the edge of the stage. Teach him to be careful. Only after those two songs were done with did she take a deep breath and went for the love ones, now doing her best to show all the crowd how she belonged heart and soul to the Blond Spanish. Once more, finished the songs, she jumped into his arms and into a long kiss.

"Ready, now?"

"Let's say bye to Dona Lúcia, then."

It wasn't easy to find her, and Isabel knew very well it wouldn't be. Luck was on her side, though. As they stood by Mariana's talking to Mauro, Dona Lúcia's youngest son, a commotion broke out.

Victor noticed it first, turning around. Then both Isabel and Mauro saw the crowd give way as one of the charcoal grills fell over, spreading half-cooked sardines and live embers.

"Shit," the young man hissed, cussing whoever had started it and lunging forward.

"Go, love," Isabel urged fervently. "Give those asses a lesson!"

Victor had gone into the fray immediately, giving Isabel the impression he had been holding back from the get go. Naturally, Isabel didn't stay behind. Careful not to get too close, though, she got a chair that had fallen to the side when the crowd had escaped the falling grill and got it against the wall for stability, then climbed up on it. Now she had a clear view!

Isabel had no idea how or why the altercation had started, but it didn't matter. One of the men tried to punch Victor and got knocked out instead. A second one was already sprawled on the floor and, as a third got his hands up to escape the fate of his brawling partners, Creed grabbed him by the collar and threw him onto the floor next to the glowing embers.

"Fix that mess," she heard him say.

Isabel clapped and, when Victor looked up at her, she waved and lept down, ran up to him, kissed him like mad. There were a few claps and laughter but she had no idea if it was because of her or the drunk guy picking embers with a little shovel and who was getting mocked by the crowd, a few kicking the embers at him.

"You're nuts, mi Ne… uh… Nuts."

"Hey, Kredall!"

Isabel looked up too. Someone was giving Victor a beer.

"Nice moves, man. You should stick around till two. That's when the beer fights really get going." Isabel bit her tongue not to say anything, hoping Victor did stay. "Sardines?"

"No, thanks. I've had enough."

Still embracing Victor's waist, Isabel told the guy to get some bifanas instead.

"He's carnivorous. Meat only!" She felt him growl, the vibration coursing through his entire body and making her blood simmer in pleasure. "But I'll have a sardine, if you'll get me one."

"I'm getting hungry," she quickly told Victor. "God, that scene was amazing!"

"You can eat back in the house," he grumbled, snarling a bit. "I don't want you in the middle of fighting assholes."

"No," she told him straight on. "They are assholes, like you said, and you are right next to me. You can kick their asses with your eyes closed and I'll never be in any danger. Right now, _you_ have to enjoy _your victory_ and I have to eat. And, _if_ there are more fights, I want to be right here cheering you on and celebrating every one of your victories."

The frown vanished. Isabel had expected a bit of resistance from him, but he simply gazed at her, serious, and when someone brought a sandwich of meat for whomever wanted it, Creed took it and told her to eat.

"You haven't eaten in over two hours," he grumbled, taking her towards one of the tables and wrestling a seat from a couple of teenagers, telling them to go off dancing because they were too young to be sitting around like old people.

Once more, Isabel sat on his lap. She hadn't expected him to embrace her waist so tightly, and much less had she expected that tender kiss he dropped on her neck. It was enough to make anyone forget hunger. But when she turned to kiss him, he growled and ordered her to eat.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want to dance?"

"You've danced enough."

Isabel held back a groan.

"Just one tiny teeny song?"

"No. Ya've been on yer feet fer hours!"

"I've been seating on your lap for hours, you mean," she grumbled.

Not to mention they were still seating at the tables, which meant Victor hadn't gone back to making out. They were too exposed, apparently.

"You'd rather be sitting somewhere else?"

Isabel glared at him, but Victor didn't show any sign of amusement. This was dangerous. He might be reaching the limit and decide it was time to leave. Only it was still early, not even midnight yet!

"I'm going to eat more sardine," she shrugged. "They're nice and fat this year, and I doubt I'll find any this good in Canada. Do you want a drink or something to bite?"

The man growled but got up and accompanied her to Mariana's door, where the charcoal grills were still working full time. It was always safe to mention eating.

"Folks are getting drunk," Victor grumbled as she got a couple of sardines.

"Oh, this is nothing," Isabel smiled, remembering previous celebrations. "Two, three am, that's when they're at their worst. Then they start throwing up and dropping in alleys so by five they're all dead to the world and you can keep on having fun wih your friends."

The way Creed looked at her gave her the impression he might not appreciate her knowledge on the subject.

"Come on. Let's find a quiet spot."

Victor's eyes scanned the area for seats but Isabel was tired of sitting and hurried ahead. She ignored his 'hey' and ran faster: the music was too loud and she didn't have heightened senses, she giggled to herself. She didn't go that far, anyway. She leaned onto the wall next to Dona Júlia's kitchen window and called him, as if he wasn't scowling a step behind her.

"We're out of the crowd here," she smiled brightly, biting the bread. "Hmm, but we still have a good view."

"We're leaving once you finish," he snarled.

Guess he really had reached the limit. Better eat slowly. Isabel sighed and leaned on him.

"Are you cold?"

In that perfect summer night?

"Of course not!"

A group of young men on their way to being very drunk walked by. They were spoiling for mischief and Isabel hoped they kept looking for it elsewhere. She was still confident she could dally their departure a bit longer but not if Victor imagined danger nearby. Unfortunately, they started pestering a couple of sweethearts. Leaning on Victor's chest, she felt his low growl more than she heard it. Great idea!

"They're pulling a Danni," she said out loud. "Someone should teach those assholes a lesson."

The couple walked away and one of the drunkards walked a few steps behind, running a filthy mouth.

"Oh, he really needs a lesson, Victor." She elbowed him softly but tenaciously. "Go on."

The man didn't budge, though. Didn't he like fights? What was he waiting for! Isabel kept her glare on the drunk asshole who had stopped going after the retreating couple. She willed him to look at her with all she was worth. She knew, from previous stints with that kind, that all she needed was for him to notice her stare and he'd walk right into the lion's den. Or the tiger's.

The guy spit on the floor and glanced about. Isabel barely held time to control the smirk of satisfaction.

"What the fuck you're looking at, you fucking whore?" Oh, yeah, honey, don't stop now. "Getting we… uh…"

Victor was on him immediately. He grabbed the guy and dragged him into the nearest alley. For a moment, Isabel was worried. He wasn't going to kill him, was he? But no, of course not. She finished the sardines and swallowed the bread, cleaning her hands on a tissue. The couple who had left had vacated a plastic chair which, due to the close proximity of the assholes, had been left alone. Still a bit worried, she walked up to the chair and started pulling it towards the spot where she'd been.

She stopped abruptly when it got suddenly heavy.

"Where are you going, doll?"

The guy's friends. They probably hadn't even noticed their group had lost a member. Isabel hesitated a second, wondering how Victor was going to react once he saw her in supposed danger, but then force of habit kicked in and she kicked a leg of the chair sideways.

It was an old chair, its shape so distorted by years of sun and rain that its four legs couldn't rest on a regular pavement at the same time, much less on the street's irregular one, and the guy was too drunk to have any sense of balance. The kick was more than enough to have both the young man and the chair sprawled sideways onto the floor. The three standing ones started laughing immediately.

Had she been alone, Isabel would have let go of her prey and got lost in the crowd. Had she been there with her friends from another life, she'd have raised a scandal to get reinforcements. But she was there with Victor. Who was hopefully coming out of the alley and catching up with her right about now.

"You fucking whore!"

Isabel put a fist on her hip and snorted as the guy got to his unsteady feet, nearly going down again.

"Try insulting next door's neighbour 'cause you're barking at the wrong tree, you little shit head. Get out of here!"

He got incensed, obviously. Isabel knew full well she was playing with fire, but her reinforcement must be catching up any minute now and, besides, for a moment she was her old 18 year old self. For a moment, she was Inês and the possibility of things going wrong thrilled her even as she knew it wouldn't get that far.

When the asshole finally got his footing and advanced towards her, Isabel didn't retreat an inch. If Victor didn't show up right about now…

Isabel gasped as she was pulled backwards, a strong hand keeping her balanced. Without a word, Victor knocked the guy out and took a step towards the others, growling. One of the three took off. Smart one. The others were either too dumb or too drunk. Obviously, Victor had to let go of her to knock out the unsteady duo, and Isabel took the chance to straighten the chair and sit on it.

When Victor turned to her, her whole body boiled. She really needed a reality check because a snarling beast of a man with fangs should not be seen as a turn on anywhere in the world.

"Ya're fuckin' demented," he grabbed her by an arm roughly, maybe hard enough to bruise, and pulled her up from the chair.

She didn't resist, quite the opposite. She put her free arm around his neck and pulled herself as tall as she could, standing on tip-toes.

"I know," she switched to English and grinned devilishly, "but see you in a fight in a night party is _exciting_."

He kissed her roughly and she moaned. The night wouldn't have been complete without a fight. There was always a couple.

"Let me tell you a secret," she whispered in Portuguese. "Tonight, I didn't start anything. I just came to get a chair so I could get some rest; they're the ones who came after me, ok? But I used to fuel fights."

"Ya what?" He frowned, still in English.

"Sh, it's a secret. I never told anyone. It isn't proper, you know, for a woman to enjoy fights. But at a night party like this? In the middle of a group of friends? I just had to discretely invite a drunk asshole into being his asshole self and, poof! Instant fight and no one would point a finger at me as the instigator."

The man blinked and stared at her.

"But ya can't even throw a punch!"

"Oh, no, love. _I_ never fought. But I wanted to see someone kick the assholes' ass and the guys loved fighting. I was doing my friends and the world a favour, giving them the opportunity to teach the jerks a lesson."

He frowned.

"I don't want ya doin' that, startin' fights. Ya'll end up gettin' hurt."

"But I _didn't_ start a fight!" And she laughed. She might have opened herself for the guy to pick on her, but she hadn't started it. Not really. "Oh, it was perfect!"

Victor was still looking at her funny, though, and Isabel was uncertain. Maybe she shouldn't have told him. She had been sure he'd find her interest in fights exciting, but apparently she was wrong.

"Can we sit down? We've got a chair now."

Holding her by the wrist, Victor brought the chair towards the wall and sat down. Isabel stradled him. It wasn't the most comfortable position on that type of chair, but she wanted to look him in the eye.

"I want to tell you about Danni."

"I don't give a fuck who that asshole is."

But his hands pulled her closer to him and he kissed her again, breathing in her scent deeply the moment he broke it.

"Do you remember that group of guys that went to every running of bulls in the area?"

"The ones who took you up as their mascot and taught you how to party all night long?"

He asked it roughly and she smiled brightly, running a hand through his short hair.

"The very ones. Well, one of them was this absolute jerk. We called him Danni, short for Daniel. We made fun of him like crazy, and he never saw it. He was full of himself and he was always provoking everyone into fights because he knew the group had his back. I mean, he was an ass, but we weren't going to let anyone else beat him up, right? Except when he took his stupidity too far, usually when he got drunk. In those cases, we actually egged him on then left him to his devices. We'd only break the fight up if it got too bad on him. He deserved to get a few punches every now and then."

"You're the devil, woman."

She bit her lip for a moment. Was it good or bad that he thought she was the devil? She couldn't tell from his tone. It occurred to her this was the perfect moment to continue his education.

"Danni was a jerk with his girlfriend too. Jealous like crazy. Although, I could understand him being jealous."

Victor started nibbling her neck, breathing in deeply every now and then. She hoped he was listening.

"I mean, we were constantly telling Carla, that was his girlfriend, we were constantly telling her to dump him. We said it in front of him, too. Made a fuss about it, pointed out reasons and the advantages of potential substitutes. It was as if we were joking, but we meant it. And let's be real, if I thought my boyfriend was going to swap me for someone better than me, it would be only too natural to feel jealous, right? I might or might not act like a jerk, but it's natural to feel jealous of anyone I think is better than me and can take my boyfriend away."

You don't get jealous over being swapped for someone worse than you. You get angry, offended.

"Danni was an insecure jerk, that's why he was always so jealous of any guy around him. He figured anyone else was just better than he was."

"Is there a reason why you keep insisting on that topic?"

Isabel looked at his serious expression. There was no way she could answer that question directly.

"What do you mean?"

"Insecure jerks bein' jealous."

Thin ice, thin ice. Isabel shrugged.

"I hate that kind of people. My friends and I, we used to make fun of…" Isabel breathed out. Too close to a lie there. "It's just like dissing films and TV series."

He didn't seem convinced so she shrugged again.

"Well, I thought you liked making fun of cowards and stupid jerks. Sorry."

He still looked suspiciously at her. Must be wondering if she was trying to manipulate him again. He'd probably consider she was, even if she was honestly trying to help him be less sensitive to imagined rivals. Isabel would have to be very careful with the topic.

"Is that a Portuguese thing, or was it just you and these so called friends? The obsession with insecurity."

"Good question," she frowned thoughtfully. If he wasn't about to put an end to it, she might as well push the right ideas a bit further in. "I think it may be a cultural thing. Portugal is very conservative, you know. Men helping cleaning the house and stuff like that… it's more common these days, but it's still not a 'real man' thing. Real men are strong and they always know everything about men topics. A man has to know how to fix things in a house, for example, how cars and motorbikes work, how to drive well, can't ask for directions… you know the type. A real man is confident. He doesn't give a shit about the other guys, like supposed rivals, because that would mean they are close to his level. A real man has no one near his level. He's above every other guy."

"And you really believe that?"

She chewed a bit.

"Promise you don't get angry?" It got him frowning. "This is girl talk, ok? But my girl friends and I, we always went 'ooh, he's so cool' over guys that were confident like that. Guys that came in with a girl and were always measuring the male competition, we always dissed them as losers."

Now to buffer his ego.

"I guess that's one more thing I like about you. You have no competition."

"Oh, really."

That unamused smirk spurred her back to a different type of thin ice.

"Because we do that, you know. Well, my girl friends and I, at any rate. We compare the other guys to ours."

Victor snapped to attention.

"It's no secret!" She laughed, grinning wide. "I look at other men and compare them to you, too. It's like, you are up here, and they don't even get to half way. No competition whatsoever."

"If that ain't no secret, no wonder guys are always looking over their shoulders."

"A real man does not fear the competition; he knows he's first place in his woman's eyes." She pulled his hair and went for the best praise she could think of. "And I love thinking the other women are comparing _you_ to _their_ guys and envying me like crazy."

"You really are the devil."

Again, was that good or bad? And had her praise had the intended effect? Better to keep on soothing his ego.

"Come on. I want to sing your song before we leave and that means I have to signal the band to have a break."

Creed got up silently and followed her. Unfortunately for him, they'd have to wait a bit longer, as the band was supposed to finish soon and then there would be more fado. She'd open that round. Fortunately for her, there were no more seats available and Victor ended up agreeing to dance till it was her time.

Rocking gently in his arms, despite the rock music having a frenzied rhythm, Isabel hoped she hadn't pushed the envelope too obviously. She decided to let the topic drop for as long as possible now. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head on his chest and sighed. Victor Creed might be a jerk on some points, but he was her jerk and, despite his over-the-top protectiveness, dancing like this, in his arms, was better than every Sto António she'd ever come to before. If only they could remain like this for the rest of the night: the music playing loudly, people laughing and having fun all around them, the smell of grilled sardines and meat, even the stench of beer. She wanted to stay like this till morning so badly that she almost felt like crying. She wanted… did he even realise how strong her feelings for him were? He might want her to sing _his_ song, but… did he feel how much she loved him when she sang, or was he simply amused by the line where she died in his arms?

Isabel held him more tightly, hoping he did appreciate her love. Hoping he at least recognised it.

He rubbed her back distractedly.

* * *

It was well past midnight when Creed finally got the woman back in the house. She was still glowing with cheer and happiness and flopped onto the bed, claiming it was the best Sto António festival _ever_ , even if it was the first time she'd left so early.

Creed didn't bother to answer. Instead, he went to the toilet to take a piss. When he came back, Isabel was asleep.

"Not tired, huh?"

He stood there watching her for a moment, then it occurred to him she might grow cold, sleeping over the covers like that. He couldn't have that.

"Nesi," he called softly, earning a sleepy grunt in return.

He hesitated before shaking her awake. She needed to rest. He slid out a claw and cut through her clothes, careful so she wouldn't wake up. But when he moved her gently to the side, pulling the covers from under her, she cracked her eyes open.

"Victor, my love…" she mumbled in Portuguese, stretching out an arm.

"Sleep," he grunted, covering her with the covers. "Ya're exhausted."

"Thank you."

Her hand landed weakly on his face and he grabbed her wrist.

"I know you wanted to leave earlier and I'm sorry I dawdled for so long…" Creed snorted at the lie. She'd be sorry when hell froze over. "But you were almost perfect, love! And I love you so, so much… so much it hurts. I know you don't believe me, but I'm serious."

Holding her wrist, Creed nevertheless didn't take her hand away. She had a light smile on her face, but the happiness in her voice rang intensely. Unfortunately, the sleepy drawl made her Portuguese less than clear and Creed had to frown to understand everything she was saying.

"You made me so happy, tonight. Ah, Victor! You are the happiness I never knew and will never know again. How can I possibly feel joy when you're not around?"

"Ya need t'sleep now."

She closed her eyes and her hand went limp in his. Carefully, he placed it on the pillow. He could still feel its warmth on his face.

Outside, the party was still raging hard and fast. Creed went over to the closed window and peeked out, but the narrow winding streets hid it from view.

"Can't we just leave? Just go somewhere, forget about all this?"

Bonnie. Now there was something that was going to haunt him for life, wasn't it?

"I'll keep you with me. I'll keep you safe."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

And then he'd broken her neck. Hardest kill he'd ever done in his whole life. A kind of pain that's not easy to swallow. Not easy at all.

"I told you before and I meant it. I'll keep you with me, Bonnie. I'll keep you safe."

But Bonnie… Bonnie had been completely different from Isabel. They were both fierce, no discussion there; they didn't fall apart under pressure. Well, if you ignored Isabel's queasy stomach after a fight, although, if he were honest about it, Bonnie might have had the same reaction. He had left her with Ruth immediately and had no idea just how much she'd eaten or when. It occurred to him he hadn't known Bonnie at all when he'd decided to keep her with him. Isabel… well, there might be some stuff he didn't know about her, but he knew her much better than he had ever known Bonnie.

What had he known about Bonnie, after all? That she'd been a good girl all her life and had been to the big city to… What did he really know about her? Nothing. Isabel, on the other hand, was stubborn and smart, she knew when to press and when to let go, and she was strong. He knew Isabel could go through hell and pull through. She'd been raped and tortured only four months ago and, tonight, for example, she'd been in the middle of the crowds, pushing through groups of men and women without a single hesitation. Could Bonnie have done the same? Maybe, maybe not.

And then there was that nasty side of Isabel's. Starting fights for others to pitch in. Had Bonnie had a nasty side? He had no idea. If she had, she had not been aware of it. What had she said? The most dangerous thing in her life was getting burnt on curling irons. Isabel, on the other hand, courted danger because it was exciting. Isabel was well aware she was not the nice young woman she advertised herself as. The only reason she kept that side of hers under very tight wraps was her desire to be accepted. She was ashamed her nastiness wouldn't be deemed proper and, despite all her brazen daring, she longed to be looked up to. That was something he could use to better control the woman.

What really mattered, though, was that both women wanted to be with him despite everything.

He got a sudden bad feeling. What if the reason he hadn't killed the woman, back when he'd saved her from that Montana lab; what if the reason he'd taken her to his Wausau house… what if he had simply been somehow looking for a Bonnie replacement? For a woman that would want to run away with him to wherever. The cheesiest…

Hell, and what if that had been the reason? So what? It made no nevermind.

Creed rubbed his face. He still didn't like thinking about Bonnie. He had promised to keep her safe and he had meant it. He had meant it so badly! Damn, it still hurt way too much remembering…

Because he hadn't had a choice, had he?

And then Isabel. He hadn't promised her anything, but she'd still been almost killed. Unlike Bonnie, though, he would keep Isabel safe. With him. And his son, too. He would keep both safe.

But what if he found himself in the same spot again, without a choice?

Creed shook his head. Outside, the fado kept wailing through the night. He couldn't make out the mangled Portuguese words, but it was a gloomy one, sang by one of the Mariana's resident fado singers. Their voices were nothing next to his Nesita's!

Isabel had ended up singing four songs. Three had been standard opening acts, the fourth had been for him alone. She'd sung it more intensely than usual. He'd sworn she'd had tears in her eyes at some moment. And then she'd kissed him like there would be no tomorrow.

"Did you like it?" She'd asked, and he'd answered with a long kiss that the crowd had ignored.

Creed had to admit it: it had been a good night. Including that first fight he'd broken up, and which had fired up Isabel. Even including the fight the woman had kicked up. He was no dummy. She had been staring at the asshole hoping for him to pick on her, and she had had no business getting anywhere near the rest of the gang, especially on her own. She might not have started the brawl directly, but she had surely invited them to take her on. That was not going to happen again. And it puzzled him: how could the woman enjoy fights that much when she had the queasiest stomach he'd ever seen when the adrenaline hit high?

The only downer of the night had been the music. Way too loud, beat way too fast. Even dancing would have been enjoyable, otherwise.

No, there had been another downer. All that talk about insecure, jealous jerks. She might put up all the pretenses she wanted, but he knew she had an underlying reason for the babbling. He just couldn't understand what. For a minute, he'd even suspected she was trying to imply _he_ was an insecure jerk. But that didn't make any sense! Especially because she had then praised his strength and power and confidence and… She had not lied then. He'd been paying close attention and she had meant it to the utmost. Perhaps she meant that people could misinterpret his protectiveness as jealousy? She had once told him that locking her up would be interpreted as an act of insecurity on his part, so… maybe that was what she had been trying to say. Yeah, probably.

On the other hand, her singing had been a big high. The pop songs. The woman had been true to her word. She had made a spectacle out of their supposed love. Well, her love. But it had been kind of nice, to be honest, despite some of those lyrics having been the corniest, lamest ever. She had passed off that vibe of complete devotion to him that he liked so much. Even one of the guys had laughed at him, saying… What had been the words? That one breathes for you, you lucky ass. Yeah, that had been it. And he was, he guessed. Lucky, I mean. To be loved by a woman of Isabel's caliber had to count as real lucky. Not that he really cared whether he was loved or not, obviously.

The point was that she had sung as if the world did not go round unless he was there. As if she could not be happy without him. As if she could not live without him. It had given him goosebumps, especially that last song. Her voice alone said 'I love you' louder than anything without actually saying the words. He much preferred she didn't say them, anyway. People had cheered her on, probably thinking she was a fool in love. Well, obviously, she was a fool in love.

Creed walked back to the bed where Isabel was deeply asleep. He crouched and sniffed. Damn, that blasted scent was enticing beyond words. The scent of his woman and his son rolled into one. He couldn't have enough of it.

Now he didn't feel like flying to New York and helping Ruth out. He didn't feel like leaving Isabel alone. What if something went wrong while he wasn't around to protect her? What if she started a fight?

On the other hand, he had been getting progressively fed up with Portugal and all of his inactivity. What on earth could go wrong in that hole closed within itself, anyway? The neighbourhood was as apathic as he could wish for, St Antonio's night aside. Nothing ever happened. How on earth could she start a fight? And he did need a breather to get his hands dirty.

He started playing with her hair.

"Ya'll be safe, Nesi," he whispered. "And I'll be back in no time."

He would probably stop by that asshole Zézé's house again. Remind him that if anything happened, Creed would stop by to have a very final chat with him. Just in case.

"Ya'll be completely safe. I promise."

* * *

The firt song, which had only the chorus mentioned is Foi feitiço, by André Sardet (it was a spell).

The second song, with part of its lyrics summarised, is Lado Lunar, by Rui Veloso (moon side).

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	30. New York: Day Off

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **30\. New York: Day Off**

The woman entered the house in silence and made her way to the bedroom. The moment she stepped in, though, Sabretooth grabbed her by the nape of the neck and threw her onto the bed with such force, she didn't even have the chance to scream. She tried to turn, but Sabretooth was already pinning her down, ripping her clothes off with his claws. When she did turn, it was mostly because the mutant wanted to get a look at her front.

"Who," the woman gasped breathlessly as their eyes met.

"Nice ta meet ya too, Miss Hallie the Whore," he grinned.

The woman's eyes widened and she laughed. A big hearty laugh as her head fell back onto the bed. Somehow, it didn't fit in with the whole rape and murder scenario he'd been hired for.

"What the fuck's so funny, ya stupid frail?"

"My sister hired you to teach me a lesson, didn't she? She's the only one who calls me that! Hallie the Whore. She thinks herself so funny." The woman's eyes were gleaming with mischief as she licked her lips. "But if her idea of a lesson is rape, then she should have hired an ugly ass I wouldn't want to bed, because you, hon… Hell, you can do whatever you want to me and I'll say thank you, God, and don't stop."

Hallie the Whore indeed. No wonder she'd laughed! She thought she was in for a night of unscheduled pleasure rather than dying.

"So, tell me, shall I act all scared and victimised or shall I play the freshly-gotten harem slave, oh so coy and unwilling."

"Why not both?"

He'd break the news later on, he decided. While he usually stuck to the schedules of his hits, he was not about to refuse a willing fuck. He'd have plenty of time to terrorise the little whore. Unexpectedly, the woman turned out to be an insatiable little minx, not to mention imaginative like all hell, and later on became early in the morning.

"God! I think I'm calling in sick today," the woman sighed. "I feel way too satisfied to put up with those assholes at the office. It'll ruin my perfect mood. And you, my dear sir, feel free to stop by whenever you feel like. You're more than welcome!"

"Sorry, frail. Ain't gonna happen. Ya see, rape was simply the appetizer in yer sister's plan, though ya made it into a nice lil' main meal."

For once, the woman smelled apprehensive.

"What do you mean?"

"I've been hired ta kill ya."

Sabretooth grinned as he said it, giving her time for the idea to sink in before she tried to escape. Then he could proceed to the actual rape and kill he was being paid for.

"Is this a joke?"

"Nope."

She sat up in bed and looked at him. So… no attempt at escaping? Guess she was going to try and talk her way out of it. Well, it couldn't be all fun and games.

"My sister is a stupid asshole."

"I've worked fer plenty o' those. It don't bother me fer as long as I get paid."

She'd smirked.

"Well, you won't be." Huh? Sabretooth sat up too. "She's broke. Spends way too much on clothes and jewellery. Why do you think the stupid cunt wants me dead? Dear granny is on her death bed and my big sis does not like sharing. She's so stupid she doesn't even realise that my death will be way too convenient and the cops, as stupid as they may be, will hail her as their most likely suspect. And if she's convicted, she'll not only end in jail, she'll end up not getting any money."

Sabretooth frowned.

"Ya're just sayin' that t'get off the hook."

However, he hadn't smelled a single lie coming off the woman's lips. He'd smelled a healthy amount of fear, but no panicking and no lies.

"Oh, yeah? Then pretend you have killed me and demand your payment. See if you get to see any green. I bet my life she'll tell you you'll have to wait till the old woman dies."

Sabretooth hesitated.

"You know, that's probably what we really should do. You go to my sister and claim you've killed me and gotten rid of the body so the cops would think I took off. You can tell her… hell, you can demand an extra fee for making it look like there's no foul play so the cops won't bug her. Maybe she got herself a sugar-daddy to pay for your services, though I doubt it. And me, I'll go to New York."

Feeling at a crossroads, Sabretooh asked her why she thought he'd let her live. Though, in truth, he wasn't that keen on killing this particular mark if he really wasn't going to get paid. Even if he might end up raping and killing the stupid sis as compensation.

"I've got a second job, you see. Associated to a secret identity, complete with social numbers and taxes dully paid, not to mention a well stocked bank account. I can easily take off to New York or wherever and no one will know I'm Hallie. I'd been waiting to save a bit more before I went for it but…"

One of the best talkers he'd come across, that's for sure.

"Anyway, I'll pay for your services. Like I said, _I_ have money, unlike my sister."

"How much are we talkin'?"

She hesitated and chewed on her cheek.

"I'll need to have enough to start my own business," she said. "I can pack all my stuff, leave some good-bye messages and withdraw all the money I have under my real name. That's about 14,500."

He shook his head. "Yer sister's payin' me 20."

The woman rolled her eyes.

"I'll add a lifelong membership for my services, excluding sex – that's whenever you want; no strings attached. But you'll have bed and food and, when I start adding employees, you can have them for free whenever they're not working. Also, I'll pay you the other 5,500 as soon as I'm fully settled and got myself new steady clients."

Sabretooth frowned.

"What business are we talking here?"

"An escort service. I'm working solo for now because I don't want to become too visible – I hadn't planned to break up with the family too early. But once Hallie is dead… I will have to start from scratch, but there will be nothing standing in my way and keeping me from growing."

She was the single best talker he'd ever come across.

"However! I must insist in getting a reduced fee whenever I ask for your services."

He laughed.

"What the hell d'ya want my services fer?"

The woman remained deadly serious, though.

"This is not the safest job there is, hon. You come across a lot of weirdoes and jerks. I have personally been forced to do stuff I wasn't in the least interested in doing because some asshole decided I shouldn't be the one determining what services my business offers. And then there are assholes who feel they shouldn't pay for what they got. Right now, I've got myself some failsafes and I know a couple of people who'll help me out when that happens, but once I'm flying solo in New York…"

"I ain't no private bodyguard."

"With that body of yours? You don't know what you're missing out. Anyway, I'm not talking about doing this regularly. I'd have changed career if I had weekly setbacks like that. No. It'll probably be more in the line of once every two months at the beginning and then, as I make new contacts, it'll stop being necessary at all."

Sabretooth thought it over. If the other sister really didn't have the money to pay him, he'd be shooting himself in the foot, killing dear ol' Halley. Especially because he was only in for 15 grand – if he got paid – while this meant 20 in two installments, plus a few guaranteed jobs in the near future.

"Okay, Hallie, let's do this."

She smiled. "Call me Ruth. Hallie is dead, remember?"

* * *

Victor Creed entered the house through the back. It was locked, as it should be at three a.m., but he had the key. He went up silently.

"Ruth?"

"Oh, Victor! You're back already."

Well into her forties, the woman looked anything but the sex-hungry machine she'd been in her twenties. The best deal Creed had ever made in his life, and one of the very few marks he'd ended up not acing, for one reason or another.

"Is this the guy who was givin' ya trouble?"

Creed threw the plastic bag onto the floor as the woman got off the bed in a see-through neglige to peek into it.

"Yes, that's the one. My little Kimmy is going to be so relieved when she realises he's off her case."

Creed cracked his neck and stretched. It had turned out to be a disappointingly easy job.

"Do you need anything?" She asked with an invitingly sly grin. "I can send one of the girls to your room."

Creed grinned. Ruth's girls were sexy bunnies, he'd give them that, but their only advantage over Ruth was really their youth. Those pretty-faced dolls knew how to play up their good looks and turn their brain-dead eagerness to get fucked into teasing vixen eyes. The perfect fucking dolls. Ruth had never been that way. She'd had class from the start, and her eagerness for sex had never been that lavish 'do with me as you will' but more on the lines of 'I'll get you to heaven and back 'cause that's the way I like it'. And that's the way he liked it, too.

Unfortunately, time had caught up with her. Even if she was growing old gracefully, rather than pretending to be younger and irresistible.

"I'm feelin' a bit jet-lagged. Gettin' off the plane an' startin' hackin' dumbasses who pee 'emselves 'fore ya even do anythin' is not what I call a nice, relaxin' job, ya know."

"Sorry. We never get trash unless it's useless in the extreme."

Yeah, what he needed was to get some shut-eye and relax.

"Can I fix you a snack?"

"Nah! Ate on my way here." But then he had an idea. "Say… I could use a blowjob ta help relax, and ya still got the best mouth in this place."

And she did. She might be getting old, but that mouth of hers kept getting better. There was only one woman who gave head better than Ruth, in Creed's book, but Raven had an unfair disadvantage over the human frail. She could morph her tongue and throat to create the most amazing effects on a guy's dick. Still, for a base human, Ruth was uncannily good. In fact, she could give Isabel some pointers because, although his woman was not bad for a newbie, she wasn't exactly skilled yet.

Sure, practice makes perfect and Isabel was very keen on practicing. While he didn't complain about that, she did tend to prefer stuff she already knew worked. He got it. She wanted to feel confident and that meant not travelling too far from her comfort zone. It did get a bit boring at times and, while she'd reacted very well to his directions back in Alberta, these days she seemed to get embarrassed, as if it meant she wasn't doing a good enough job. Although, to be honest, most of the time it did mean exactly that.

"Why didn't you say so sooner!"

She was grinning delightedly as she walked up to him but Creed raised a hand to stop her.

"Gimme ten minutes while I have a shower, first. I can still smell that ass's stink."

And to get Isabel off his thoughts, while he was at it, he grumbled on the way to his room. He had told her he'd be away for four or five days, but he was starting to think he wouldn't last that long. He was worried. He might have made up his mind that the pregnancy was going to stick but it really wasn't a given. She wasn't in the second trimester yet, for starters, and that didn't guarantee something wouldn't go wrong either. There's still 3% chances of a miscarriage at that stage, and we were talking about average pregnancies. Isabel's was everything but average. And what if the pregnancy did stick? Then what? Or what if it didn't stick and she had a miscarriage? He had this idea of miscarriages as dangerous drama-filled events. Women dying, nearly dying or losing the chance of ever getting pregnant again. Not that the last option was a real downer in his book, but the first two were upsetting, to say the least. Although, Isabel was actually in the best place possible for something to go wrong. Even if she were alone, nosy as the neighbours were and thin as those walls were, everyone would be on to her instantly and calling an ambulance. Unless of course, no one heard her because she didn't ask for help.

Creed was stripping in the bathroom and, as he took off his watch, he noticed the time. It was eight a.m. in Lisbon; Isabel should be about to go to the grocer's for some bread. On an irresistible whim, he got his phone and rang the woman.

"Sim?"

He almost sighed in relief at the sound of her voice. She sounded perfectly alright.

"Hey, what are ya doin'?"

"I'm going out to buy bread." He could hear her smile as she spoke in her native language. "Want me to buy some for you too?"

For a moment, he was aware of how natural it already felt for him to speak in English and get an answer in Portuguese.

"Don't be an ass," he leaned against the cold washbasin. "Did ya weigh yerself today?"

"Hun? Way?" She switched into English. "I don't understand."

"Weigh! As in weight."

"Hun? Wait for what?"

"Not wait, ya dimwit, _weight_!" It occurred to him he had spent most of the time in Portugal speaking in Spanish, not English, so the woman might honestly not know the word. "As in 'quiero saber tu peso'."

"Ah! Ok," and she switched back to Portuguese. "It's the same as yesterday."

The same? Because yesterday she had barely put on 200 grams, which is less than half a pound, in comparison to the previous day, and on that previous day she had had almost less 100 grams than the day before that.

"Either that scale ain't workin' right or ya ain't eatin' enough."

Or maybe the baby was already dying, withering up inside her instead of thriving.

"Victor, my love, checking my weight every single day is not what doctors advise. You have to give it time."

Time his ass! She needed to eat so the baby had enough nutrients to fight for his life.

"Are ya writin' what ya eat an' don't eat?"

"Uh… You asked me to write my weight and the circumference of my waist, not what I eat."

He hadn't? He could have sworn he had.

"Well, ya obviously have ta write it all down, too. Why the hell did I get ya that diary? An' don't ferget ta check how many calories ya eat of everythin', got it?"

"Ok."

"Good." Creed breathed out, annoyed at not feeling relieved. "Ya are eatin' six meals a day as I told ya, right?"

"Yes, Victor, I am."

Then she should be puttin on weight!

"So, what did ya eat yesterday?"

"You mean, after your last phone call? I ate an apple and then I went to bed."

On top of soup and fish for dinner and two light afternoon snacks, it did sound fine. But if she was eating enough, why wasn't the woman putting on weight more regularly?

"And have ya eaten breakfast?"

"Yes, Victor. I ate a pot of yoghurt so I wouldn't be on an empty stomach, and now I was supposed to be buying bread and milk so I can have a proper breakfast."

"Well, why didn't ya say so earlier? Hurry up wi'the grocery shoppin' already!"

What the hell did she think she was doing, delaying her meals instead of stuffing her face.

"As soon as you end the phone call, love."

Creed growled and hung up. Maybe she wasn't eating the right stuff. Sure, her diet was varied, he found no fault with the woman on that point, but it was not normal that her weight was below the average on every damn book and website he checked. He knew she was petite, he knew her normal weight was naturally below the average, he knew each woman and each pregnancy was a different case, but still! The only reason he'd read that would keep a woman from putting on weight in the first trimester was morning sickness, and Isabel never had any nauseas. It made him fear that the problem really was with the baby. That his son really was… withering. Or maybe…

Creed called her again.

"Sim?" the woman hissed.

"Are ya doin' too much exercise?"

"What?"

"It just occurred t'me: maybe ya're makin' too much effort. Ya know, burnin' too many calories. That's why ya ain't puttin' on weight as ya should."

She had barely stopped during the week, with all the food preparation for the evening parties, and then all the dancing and singing…

"Victor, my love, I was always light-weight. All my life! It follows that my pregnancy is probably going to be on the light side, too, ok? Stop fretting! It upsets me and _that_ is definitely not good, at least according to _you_."

Creed snarled.

"Well, if ya worried a bit more 'bout yer condition," and his fucking son's life!, "I wouldn't hav'ta be on top of ya as much as I hav'ta!"

"I have to buy bread now, love. I'll call you again after breakfast so I can report the number of calories I've ingested, ok?"

"Good!" He remembered it suddenly. "But it ain't just calories, ya hear? It's nutrients, too."

Instead of taking the time spent travelling to memorise all the Catholic crap he had to, Creed had looked up websites, while waiting for the plane in Lisbon, and turned them into pdf files so he could read during the eight hour long flight over the Atlantic. According to the American RDA, nutrients are even more important than just counting calories. Nutrients are the building blocks for the baby. The woman was probably not making sure which nutrients she was eating and wasn't getting the right ones in the right quantity.

"Yes, my love, I'll check the nutrients. Got to go, now. I'll call you after breakfast."

Damn, that woman drove him nuts. Wasn't she the least worried? Wasn't she the one who'd wanted a team worth of kids and was instead facing her only chance ever of getting at least one? So why didn't she…

"Knock, knock! That must be a very persistent stink, if you're still in the shower."

Ah, Ruth. Maybe now he could relax. He opened the hot water.

"Just a sec! I'll be right out."

* * *

Isabel breathed out. Breakfast was long gone, the kitchen was clean, lunch was marinating, she'd added the menu for the day to Victor's stupid diary, and she only had to choose whether to eat orange or apple for her morning snack. Maybe she should eat both to shut the man up.

It upset her. It really did. Victor was getting too invested, too early. She was still only on the 11th week. If the baby only got hydropsis fetalis around the 12th week… She didn't know what the man would do! They could hope all they wanted that the other kidnapped women's pregnancies had ended in the first trimester, but what if that had been the majority rather than all of them? What if some of those pregnancies had managed to go further before the disease set in?

Groaning, Isabel paced around the house and forced herself to calm down. Then she picked up the phone, put on a smile and called Victor.

It rang two, three, four times. Funny. She'd gotten the impression he'd be glaring at the phone waiting for her call. Eight, nine, ten times. Had something happen…

"What?"

He sounded breathless.

"Victor, it's me. Is everything ok?"

"I'll call ya back."

And he hung up. Oh, God! Was he in the middle of a job? But she'd said she'd call him and he hadn't… Great! She'd messed up. Why hadn't he told her not to phone?

Isabel flopped onto the bed and waited. Then she checked the time. Groaning, she closed her eyes. She hoped she hadn't ruined the job, whatever it was.

The phone vibrated prior to the ringtone kicking up and Isabel answered immediately.

"Are you ok, love? Did I cause you any trouble?"

"Uh? What're ya talkin' 'bout?"

Isabel frowned.

"I had the impression you were in the middle of a job."

He had definitely been in the middle of _something_.

"No, I was sleepin' an' I'd fergotten the phone in the bathroom. Took me a while ta find it."

Really? It had taken Victor Creed a while to find a ringing phone? How far away from the bed was that bathroom? It sounded more like he'd been too distracted to register the ringing and then, once he'd had… what could explain such a long time to answer?

"So, ya've had yer breakfast?"

"Yes," she answered, going over the possibilities. "I had 200 mililitres of milk with barley coffee and about 150 grams of bread with cheese and ham."

He'd been getting rid of company, Isabel decided. It was the only thing that could explain how long the phone had rung, not to mention why he'd hung up.

"Ok. What're ya gonna have fer a snack?"

Isabel took a deep breath to keep her annoyance off her voice.

"One apple."

He was probably in a brothel, she decided. What was the name of that woman he had said, months ago? The one who ran a brothel? The one on whose lap he had wanted to drop Isabel so she'd learn something?

"And fer lunch?"

Because he was there, wasn't he? As certainly as she was lying on a bed in Lisbon. He was in the fucking brothel with that fucking madam who was probably his fucking lover and that was the only fucking job there ever was, wasn't it?

"Isabel, ya're there?"

"Yes, my love," she smiled through clenched teeth.

Wasn't sex every fucking night enough for the man? He had to ditch her for another woman?

"So, what're ya havin' fer lunch?"

"Steak with rice and a fried egg. And an orange for dessert."

And a proper cup of coffee at Mariana's, because the doctor had said she could have a cup of weak coffee on occasion, no matter what Victor chose to obssess over, and two cups of rice pudding which he never wanted her to eat because 'you're pregnant, remember, so cut down on the sugar and eat healthy'. Fucking asshole.

"Sounds ok, I guess. Have ya checked the nutrients an' calories an' stuff?"

Oh, right, she'd forgotten about his latest obssession.

"I'm sorry, love, but I can't find anything in Portuguese and my English is not good enough for me to do that with any level of accuracy. Do you think you could check it for me, please? I can send you a text message with the weights of everything I eat, and you'll check it up in no time."

He better not think she'd be slaving at a computer, dictionary in hand, because he was neurotic. He wanted to count nutrients and calories? Well, knock yourself out, love! Or ask his fucking lover to do it for him.

"Are ya serious, Isabel?" Argh, she was so pissed she couldn't even put up with his grumbling! "Ya can't check…"

"I'm sorry, love, I got a sudden bellyache and got to run to the toilet. See you later!"

Argh! She threw the blasted phone onto the bed. The fucking asshole! Tears welled up and she started pacing the bedroom, refusing to cry for the man.

"Don't be stupid," she told herself aloud. "He's not your boyfriend, lover, fiancée or husband. He's simply the guy who wants you for… for easy sex and a clean house. That's all you are to him, got it? And if you think he's going to ditch all his current lovers, which, make no mistake, he's got scattered around the world, wherever he spends longer than a week with any regularity, if you think he's going to ditch them all for you, then _you_ 're the fucking asshole!"

Oh, but it so enfuriated her!

"Stop it, Inês! Make yourself a cup of tea and get over it."

Fuming, she headed to the kitchen and got water heating, got a packet of chamomile tea.

It occurred to her that the woman (what was her name?) was a brothel's madam. She was probably a highly-skilled sex-worker. Next to… whatever-her-name-was (she was sure Victor had said it), Isabel must look like a clueless beginner with no skill whatsoever and always in need of pointers and directions. Was it a wonder Victor wanted a break from the rookie and a couple of envigorating days in the hands of an expert?

"Well, if that's the case…"

Isabel turned off the stove and left the house. She quickly headed towards the nearest tram stop. This was not something she could buy anywhere near her neighbourhood. Checking the schedule, Isabel groaned at having to wait another ten minutes. But whatever. She needed to get downtown and to a bookshop. She was going to buy every fucking kamasutra and random book on sex she came across. Oh, and magazines! Chick magazines always have sex tips. She'd buy a few, too.

Damn! It was going to get heavy. She glanced at the watch, then she turned back and nearly ran all the way to the house. She got her shopping bag trolley and hurried back, just in time to get on the tram.

There! She'd be damned if she was going to let Victor get fed up with her inexistant sex skills and swap her for other women. It was about time she took the matter seriously.

* * *

Creed had been lazying about all day, but he was still in a rotten mood.

For a starter, he'd had some crazy annoying dreams when he'd finally gotten down to get some sleep, after kicking Ruth out and talking to Isabel on the phone. He couldn't recall the details, but it had involved his father and hunting and Graydon and… he wasn't quite sure, but Mystique might have made a cameo.

Then he'd looked for nutrition data and came across a great site… that wasn't exactly user friendly. At least not in his book. Why didn't they just make a list with all the best food stuff pregnant women should eat for a truly balanced diet? No, he had to check it all manually.

And then… he had wanted to get on a plane and go back to Isabel and his unborn son.

Creed kept telling himself not to get his hopes up. No, not hope. Expectation. He didn't really want a kid around, right? Anyway, he couldn't start getting expectations high before time. It was not a baby, not a boy, not a son. It was a fetus. A little critter. Not even boy or girl at this stage! A little 'it' that might die at any moment.

Right.

He'd still felt the urge to fly back to his woman's side. Make sure both her and it were ok. Make sure that…

He hadn't gone back, obviously. Instead, he had hoarded Ruth's girls till he'd gotten fed up. Then he'd gotten to watch TV and discovered he had become used to commenting what he was watching with Isabel. It really got him pissed! He half considered having one of Ruth's girls around, but he wanted someone that was interested in actually listening to him, the way Isabel did. The way she sometimes didn't even bother to look at the screen, so enthralled she was with him. So he had phoned her.

Unfortunately, she'd been napping. What a miracle! The woman did not take a nap unless he tied her to the bed. It had really pissed him that he'd woken her up, even if she had been in a great mood and had wanted to chat. He'd told her that he was watching a documentary about guns. Gun control, to be exact. He'd started telling her exactly how he felt about each argument each side dished out. He hadn't even been bothered by her interruptions, asking for clarifications. It was so refreshing having someone not just listening to you but actually invested in understanding what you were saying. Nevertheless, he could hear her langor in her voice and kept feeling bad about keeping her awake. The woman needed to rest if his son was to develop properly. Half-way into the documentary, he'd said it was over and told her to go back to her nap.

It only occurred to him he hadn't asked about what she'd eaten or what she had been doing that day after hanging up. He'd then spent the rest of the documentary with the phone in his hand, keeping himself from calling her again. She was probably going back to sleep, after all, and what did she have to do besides sewing and crocheting? It had probably bored her into sleepiness.

It went without saying that, despite enjoying the chat, he had come out of it frustrated and restless. So much so, that he had ended up heading out way too early. After wasting time going about town waiting for nightfall, he finally went to Satan's Circle for a well deserved game of poker and some quality guy time. That was when the real shit had hit the fan.

"Well, well, changed yer mind, did ya, Vic?"

Creed was asking for a drink at the bar, since it was still early for his usual gaming partners, when Constrictor had come up with that.

"What're ya talkin' 'bout?"

"Weren't ya leavin' fer Japan fer a big gig today? Gonna hunt down some souvenir geishas on yer free time after cashin' in big time?"

Creed had been too shocked for words for a second and Constrictor had noticed it. For a moment, there'd been an awkward silence, then the guy had asked the bartender for a drink.

"Typhoid came in early today too, but she's already gone. I swear, that chick can't make up her mind 'bout nuthin'!"

"Say, Frank… I had a run in with a telepath a few hours ago, got my memories screwed up a bit 'fore I buried 'im… when did I mention this Japan gig?"

The man laughed.

"You an' the fuckin' telepaths, man. Ya just can't pass a job that'll get yer brains fried and yer memories shuffled good, huh?"

Creed snarled but both men knew it wouldn't go beyond that. Patrons of the bar did not go about starting fights, after all. Bad for business and everyone involved, as fights involving tens of super-villains would get the super-heroes breathing down everyone's necks.

"The day before yesterday. Or night, t'be exact. 'Fraid ya didn't mention who yer employer was so I can't help ya get back on that golden horse. But I'll pay ya a drink t'make up fer the missed fortune, what d'ya say?"

Creed didn't even bother to finish the beer. He got up and told the bartender Constrictor was paying, then left the bar.

He had a clone going about. Worse, a clone pretending to be him. Fuck it all to hell! He had to hunt down the prick and…

Creed stopped in the middle of the pavement. He'd just had an epiphany! He hailed down a taxi.

"T' the JFK airport."

This was going to be the perfect cover detail ever! He'd used a couple of his clones before, to give him alibis and such. The ones Sinister cooked up could sometimes be as tough as nails, but they lacked the drive of the real Sabretooth, not to mention Sinister added in failsafes to make them a bit more controllable. It really cut down on their performance. Anyway, he'd used his own clones before. Why not do the same now? Let this doppelganger run free while he was living the good life with his woman, waiting for his son… that is, his maybe-would-be kid, if all went well.

He could use one of his lesser known aliases and hire the clone into some very visible shenanigans. Perfect alibi! Better than that only if he managed to get the asshole caught by the Avengers, or the X-Men. Ha! That'd be even more perfect. If his clone got locked up, everything he did outside was covered.

Oh, but this needed careful planning. He… Drats!

"Hey, driver, turn around. Fergot my bag, it seems."

Not that he was worried about his bag, but he'd left his tablet at Ruth's and it would not be good if someone found out he'd been researching pregnancy stuff.

Now, as he was saying, he needed to plan things carefully. He'd have to make sure the Clone got into visible action while Creed-Kredall was getting married in Portugal. Then he'd plan some other important events in his Kredall chronology to match some more of the Clone's havoc. Of course that meant he'd have to hire someone to keep track of his activities.

How much did the Clone know about the real Sabretooth's life, by the way? Plenty, if he was successfully tricking the guys at the Satan's Circle. No. He wouldn't use any of his usual aliases. He'd cook up a new one. A clearly false identity just for the purpose of hiring assassins. He'd have to hire at least a couple more assholes so it wouldn't look like he was obssessed with the Clone. Whatever hits he hired them for would also have to be real hits, with good motives, otherwise someone might realise something wasn't quite right.

Of course he wouldn't be able to go about taking hits under his own name, but he'd create a couple of new aliases, all from scratch, and take jobs that weren't quite Sabretooth-like. Small time jobs, preferably. That would keep him busy, keep some money trickling in… It would even keep him from high-stake gigs that could backfire and come back to harm his woman and child. Not that the child was guaranteed, but… just in case. He wasn't going to risk having his son tracked down by any of his enemies, or allies!, so he'd have to keep a low profile for… uh… with a kid holding him back? Damn, he'd have to keep a low profile for at least a few years, he guessed.

He hadn't really thought about that. How many years exactly? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty? Though it made no nevermind: the important thing was to keep his son alive and well, safe from all the shit out there.

Creed laughed. He'd get a large property in Canada, teach the boy how to hunt, how to fish, how to… He hadn't felt this excited about anything in years!

Though he shouldn't be thinking like this! The pregnancy could end up not going anywhere. But if it did… He would not turn out like Graydon, a blind, hateful ass. No. Even if he came out human through and through, Creed would still teach him right, make him strong. Sure, the kid could still turn out a weakling backstabber but… But he wouldn't. He couldn't. Creed would…

"Is this it," the driver asked.

Creed looked out at the house.

"Yeah. Hang on, will ya? I'll be back in five."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	31. Lisbon: Long Day on The Beach

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **31\. Lisbon: Long Day on The Beach**

Creed had agreed to the outing because he'd been restless. The previous Thursday, the doctor had once more guaranteed there was no sign of any problems and Isabel was now on the verge of hitting the 13th week of her pregnancy.

It was almost official: the baby would be born.

Creed had suddenly started having vivid nightmares, for no reason whatsoever, that didn't fade away. Instead they lingered in his memory and often ended up forcing him out into the capital city nightlife. He already knew the historical part of town fairly well, despite its labyrinthic layout. In fact, he actually liked its twistedness. These days, he was getting to know other parts of the city. Areas much more forgiving, in their lack of a tightly knit neighbourhood, to roaming predators.

When Isabel had said she'd like to go to the beach, to have a change of air and visit old haunts, he figured it might help his restlessness. He'd told her to get a house in the area so they could hang around for a few days but she'd shot the idea down: it was only one hour and a half away and she didn't really want to spend all day long on the beach. No, she'd been hoping to set off early, enjoy the morning, have a picnic in the local pine woods, then drive around a bit and get back.

Creed had figured it was close enough so, sure, why not? He'd even gone out and bought himself a jeep.

And then Isabel had started giving him directions. Highway? What for! Waste of money, boring roads, and terrible views. No. The thing was to take the winding, narrow, signless national roads and see if they could get lost on their way to the damn place!

Braking at yet another crossroads with no helpful signs whatsoever, Creed snarled.

"How come there are only signs pointin' at where we're comin' from?"

"Well, it's a local road, love. Most people who use it know perfectly well where they're going." Yeah, because that made perfect sense! "I say we go left. It should take us closer to the coast."

Oh, and had he mentioned the roads were narrow and winding? Especially whenever they drove through small villages whose houses stood on the very edge of the road? And where people decided to stop their cars – in the middle of the freaking road! – to chat to any pedestrian? Not to mention they were spattered with holes in the years-old worn-out pavement.

"Well, it is a narrow road, Victor. It's not like the driver can pull the car off the lane. Why don't you just overtake it instead of honking?"

"What? There's a curve in front of us, Isabel! At the speed cars go through this road, it's freakin' suicidal to overtake anythin' at this point! I mean, how many people get killed by speedin' cars on this road?"

The woman shrugged and sighed with annoyance. As if he was blowing anything out of proportion! And he wasn't, because a couple of cars did speed by just as he had finished talking. He honked again and the other driver finally reacted, waving a hand in a gesture that simply had to mean 'yeah, yeah, going; give it a break', the guy finished the conversation and drove on. Better yet, sped on.

"Ain't the speed limit in a town 40km an hour?"

Isabel sighed again.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, my love, but no one respects _that_ speed limit. It's way too slow. They put these signs because… well, everyone drives about 10km above whatever limit, so I guess they just put extra low limits because drivers will end up inflating." What? "Unless there's a zero tolerance policy at a given road, everyone will drive at 50 or 60km, depending on the town and the weather. You're simply going too slow."

"Look, ya dimwit, that don't make no sense! You mean t'tell me that police won't fine ya if ya're driving through a town at 50km?"

"Like I said, it depends. In my town, no, they wouldn't. Unless, of course, they're hunting for fines or they've got a thing against you. Otherwise, no, it's not a problem. In fact, if a police car drives by and realises you're following the speed limit to a T, they may think you're up to something. Either that or you've just gotten your licence. Either way, you're simply calling everyone's attention to yourself."

Which was exactly the opposite of wat he intended. But it simply made no sense to him! You follow the rules and the laws when you don't want to get the attention of the police. He should know! Wanted criminal as he was, he knew damn well how not to get pulled over for whatever reason.

"In fact, if people start overtaking us because you're driving too slow, you may even get fined. You can't drive so slow that will cause the other drivers to have risk behaviour to overtake you."

Why on Earth had he decided a day trip was a good idea?

"Wouldn't you rather I drove? I'm more used to these roads."

Hell, no! The way she talked about… There! Another thing that drove him nuts. There was now a car behind them and the guy was already tailgating him. People in this place did not know how to drive without constant tailgating. Damn, it made him want to rip everyone's head off!

"Yeah, I know," the woman looked back. "I hate it when they do that too. But if you make a bit of a sudden brake, they'll get scared and fall back."

Huh?

"Are ya suggestin' that I brake suddenly an' risk the guy crashin' into us?"

"Of course not, love! You speed up first, so you get some distance, _then_ you brake."

Creed looked at the woman. She was nuts!

"It works! I've done it many times before, and I've never had an accident."

"Yeah. 'Cause Our Lady o' Fatima protects ya, right?"

She laughed at that.

"D'ya also overtake three an' four cars in one go?"

Because most drivers here did it. Mostly on straight roads, true, but also way too close to curves and, worse, on rolling hills terrain, where you could get to the top of a low hill during an overtake and suddenly discover there was a truck about to run you over.

"No, not usually. But it's easier when you know both the road and your car very well. You know exactly how much time you've got to overtake that many cars."

Right. She was definitely not driving.

And had he mentioned winding roads? Why hadn't the damned engineers leveled off the terrain? You had hills on top of hills and every damn road snaked around each and every one of them. A mountain road had fewer twists and turns.

* * *

"Argh! VICTOR!"

Laughing, Creed flopped onto his towel and enjoyed his woman's glare.

"So you think the water's still too cold, huh?" He asked in Spanish, since there were enough people on the beach that might just overhear him.

She growled and Creed turned on his side. He loved it when she did that! Besides, he wanted to rest his eyes on her body. Isabel's bikini suited her, especially its dark red. It showed her body perfectly, though not too much. Better yet, it showed the small baby bump. It was so tiny that he was sure most people wouldn't be able to notice she was pregnant at all. But he knew, and his eyes just kept hovering over it. He couldn't wait for it to be obvious!

"Can you, please, _please!_ , stop throwing water at my back?"

"How else will you know when the temperature of the water is good for you to go in?"

He grinned as she glared.

"I will go in whenever I decide to go in, got it?"

Then she lay down and turned her face away from him. Creed held back an annoyed growl. Why didn't she want to go to the water with him? Just for a little bit.

"I don't know why you wanted to come to the beach if you're just going to lay there all day."

The woman growled again, which he thought was funny, but she didn't look at him as she answered and that was not funny at all.

"I like the smell of the sea, and I like the sound of the waves, and I like playing tennis on the sand, and I like _relaxing_ on my towel getting a nice suntan and not having people annoy me."

Creed humphed and started combing the sand between their towels with his claws. There was no one close enough to see them.

"That's probably because these beaches suck," he grumbled. "You should go to the Caribbean. They've got proper beaches, with proper waves and perfect warm waters. You'd spend the day in the water there."

The woman ignored the provocation. Didn't even have the decency to breathe out some annoyance.

"Hey, are you listening to me? Portuguese beaches are freaking terrible. The worst I've ever been to. I ain't ever bringin' ya to one ever again!"

"Yes, love, I'm listening."

Listening his ass. She was ignoring him, was what she was doing. She was so begging for him to drag her into… only that would never work. She was still begging to... to… Creed grinned as he got the idea. Getting slightly up, he grabbed a handful of sand and threw it onto her back. Oh, wait, she still had wet patches of skin. He grabbed another handful and made a swirly line connecting all the wet points.

"Why do you hate me?" The woman groaned, then got up with a growl. "Victor, _stop_ bugging me! You are worse than a little boy!"

Sitting on the towel, she tried to get rid of the sand.

"Can't you just stand still for ten minutes? Enjoy the sun? Sleep a little? Hey, I know! Why don't you go back to the water and swim all the way to Lisbon and back!"

Creed laid back and grinned. Now she had to wash herself. He should have thought of it earlier.

"Nah! I'm not going to abandon you here in the middle of nowhere. Besides, I'm the one who should be complaining! You've been lying on that towel for one hour. You're supposed to keep active, remember? You haven't even gotten your toes wet!"

Isabel breathed out forcefully, obviously not happy. Still, she didn't seem about to get up and head into the water. Maybe he should make it obvious.

"You will have to go in the water to get rid of that sand, you know."

"No, I don't. Once my back dries, I can shake the sand off easily. And just so you know, I do not go into the water when I come to the beach. I can get my feet wet, _feet_ , but that's it."

What? He knew she had a paralysing fear of water, but only getting her feet wet? Why come to the beach at all?

"So, what do you do?"

"I work on my suntan, and I play beach tennis, and I play cards. I never stay longer than three hours on the beach, anyway."

Creed sat up and frowned. He'd simply have to be direct.

"Come to the water with me, Nesita."

The woman stopped breathing and Creed was annoyed to smell a whif of fear.

"I ain't gonna throw ya in, ya dumbass!" He slipped into English. "I don't want ya throwin' up all over me again."

The woman frowned.

"Throw up over you?"

Right, she had fainted, so she hadn't realised what she'd done. He got up and outstretched a hand.

"Come," he returned to Spanish.

"Uh… We can't leave our things all alone in the sand like this. Someone can rob us."

Creed shook his head.

"If I smell anyone has gotten too close, I'll hunt them down and teach them thieving has consequences."

Isabel still hesitated.

"Do you promise you won't force me into the water? Or try to?"

"Yeah, I promise."

She still hesitated and he stooped down with a growl.

"Ya ever doubt my promises, and I'm freakin' droppin' ya in the middle o' the ocean, got it?"

That helped her make up her mind and she took his hand.

It was weird, walking down to the water holding the woman's hand. It was the first time he was doing it and… it was just plain weird. It felt so small and delicate inside his. He let go of her hand the moment the water rolled over his feet. He half-expected her to stop immediately and was surprised when she kept on walking ahead of him.

The beach inclination was very mild, so one could walk for feet before the water got above the waist line. The waves, breaking in the distance, rolled gently towards the sand in slim layers of clear water, ocasionally breaking a second time as inch-tall waves. They didn't upset the woman in the least as she kept going, on and on, till she had water up to her hips. Then she turned at him with a smile.

Creed waded in after her.

"I thought you only ever got your feet wet."

She offered an intentionally coy shrug.

"Maybe I exagerated a little. So, are you happy, now?"

Not exactly. He got a hold of her wrist and the woman got fearful again. He got the impression the reason he hadn't smelled a lie was because she really had had no intention of getting in the water while he was around. She was probably expecting him to force her to learn to swim.

"I promised," he growled.

"I know," she snapped. "But there's a lot of water here, ok? And the sand is disappearing under my feet."

She was still expecting him to throw her in, no mater what she said, but fine. He took a step back and pulled her softly.

"Come in deeper. Just to the waist." She still didn't look convinced and closed the hand of her captive arm into a fist. "Hey, didn't you say I'm your tower of strength? That I make you feel safe and strong? Come on, then."

Isabel looked up at him and held her breath.

"Look, I'll always be a step ahead of you. If there's a sudden depression in the sand, I'll warn you. I won't let you get water above your waist."

She held his gaze, uncertainty etched on her face, and he started to get annoyed.

" _I_ _promise_."

"I don't need you to promise anything," she snapped again. "I believe you just fine without promises."

Creed breathed out and swapped the wrist for the hand. It was probably more reassuring.

"Ready?"

She nodded after a moment and resumed walking.

The water ebbed and flowed gently and Isabel stopped when a bigger wave sent a higher roll of water running over the surface. The woman took a deep breath and stopped as she got water all the way to the pit of her stomach, but then the water ebbed anew and the water wasn't even near her bellybutton, so she carried on without a word.

"Ok, that's enough," Creed said when his feet slid down into a slight depression.

At that point, he had water above his waist, but Isabel's bellybutton barely got hidden when the little waves swooped in. On the other hand, their heads were nearly leveled. Creed embraced her waist and got her closer to him.

"Victor!" She gasped at the unexpected movement, holding on to his shoulders with a powerful grip.

But this was what he had wanted to do all along. The first time he'd been in the water, he'd swum past a couple frolicking amisdt the surf and Creed had gotten a sudden urge of doing the exact same thing with Isabel. If there weren't so many people around, he would even have gone for actual sex in the water but… the woman just wouldn't stand it, would she? He was still itching to do something, though. Water up to their waist to hide any possible boner would have to be enough for now, but he'd bring her to the beach again. He'd slowly pull her in, using sex as goading, and she'd get over her stupid fears the exact same way she'd overcome her fear of crowds, after the torture.

Creed kissed her, long enough for her to relax and melt into his embrace. Long enough for that residual fear that had been getting stronger to vanish. Just as he had expected. Long enough for him to slip a hand under her bikini bottoms and get an embarrassed squeal in return.

"We're in public, Victor!"

But she said it giggling, arms securely around his neck.

"Yeah, I know," he whispered in English. "But see? Nuthin' to worry about."

"No," she agreed and bit down a moan as his fingers got busy.

"Not for as long as you're here with me," she said, eyes half closed. "God, love! You're insane!"

And for as long as his promise held strong, too. Creed did feel a maddening urge to swipe her feet off the ground and laugh his head off as he watched her fall in when she least expected but… he had promised, and he had meant it. After all, she had to trust him blindly if he was going to get her over her fear of water, not to mention she also had to get horny every time she thought of getting into the water with him.

A teenager splashed nreaby and Creed kissed her, putting an end to the fun. He didn't want folks to notice what he'd been up to.

"Ya sure ya don't want me ta teach ya how ta swim," he asked in English, as she got her breath back and nuzzled his neck.

The woman hesitated before looking him straight in the eye and running a finger over his face.

"Maybe one day." Ha! He knew this was the best plan ever. "But your promise is valid until I say I'm ready, right?"

He chuckled.

"What happened to 'I don't need no promises'?"

"Wave!"

Creed hadn't noticed the louder breaking but lifted the woman up.

"My saviour," she joked, though some slight fear had returned.

He put her down and asked her how come she'd never tried to overcome her stupid fear. The woman shrugged.

"You should thank my mum and my grandparents that I come to the beach at all, or that I can come in this much."

"Did they force ya in?"

Isabel smiled and shook her head.

"But they didn't let me avoid it. When I was three and four, I wouldn't even go near the wet sand. My family kept pushing me, little by little, into overcoming it. I mean, I wouldn't even get water on my face until I was six! I'd say I've come a very long way."

He wasn't about to deny that.

"Didn't ya do therapy?"

She shrugged and relaxed her embrace. Probably getting fed up with the topic, he guessed.

"Therapy wasn't that common back then, and my family was the traditional type, anyway. You fix things within the family, with trust and determination, instead of wasting money on strangers who'll probably tell you to do what you know full well you have to do."

Her hands slid down his arms and nested themselves within his. Creed took the hint and started escorting her back to the sand.

"I don't get what's so scary about the water."

"Me neither," she said softly, leaning onto him. "It's almost like an automatic reaction. It's just… I don't know. It's stupid."

"Don't worry, mi Nesita." He put an arm over her shoulders. "I'll make it go away. I'll make all your troubles go away."

xXx

Isabel had been smiling. Lying on the towel, the morning sun getting progressively warmer on her drying skin, Isabel was keenly aware of the smile she couldn't get rid of. With a happy sigh, she turned so her back would get some sun too.

Victor was dozing next to her, on his towel, and her smile grew even wider, the giggle in her throat requiring strict restraint.

That was why he'd been so restless, hadn't it? He had wanted to make out in the water with her. Silly man! Why hadn't he said so earlier? Had she had an inkling, she'd have made the effort to face the ocean the very moment they'd arrived. And now, after what he had had the nerve to do, in public!... Oh, it just fired her imagination.

Isabel unclapped her bikini top so her back could get an even tan. She hadn't dared doing it sooner because he had been bugging her so constantly. He might have had the idea of pulling it or something like that. But since he was calmer…

"What d'ya think ya doin'?"

Oh, the jealous growl. Now that was a sound she already knew with her eyes closed. She hadn't gone back to the connection of jealousy to insecurity, too early to revisit it in her opinion, but she really hoped he had gotten a hint. Apparently, he hadn't. Having swapped Spanish for English, Isabel decided he was very close to get to a level 4, in a scale of five levels. Better to step down vigorously and put an end to the escalating feeling.

"Don't you want me to have an even tan? You prefer the patchy tan with a white strap, do you?" He snarled. "Victor, try to be rational, ok? I have my front against the towel. People can see a lot less of my breasts than when I was standing in the water with you."

"That ain't the point!"

Time to kill the last preposterous reason for jealousy and divert him into some positive action.

"What, then? You think any guy looking at my unstrapped top will go 'oooh'? 'Cause they won't. First of all, there are too many women doing it for it to be special and get anyone's attention. Secondly, why would a guy drool at an unstrapped back when they can drool at breasts barely hidden by tiny bikini tops? Now, can you do me a favour? Can you put some more suncream on my back, please? I don't want to get sunburnt. It ruins the tan."

It still took the man a while to get the suncream, and he was still growling, but Isabel had to admit she liked the sound. Even if the man was being stupid.

She gasped when the cold cream landed on her back and allowed a moan to escape once his hand started spreading it.

"Oh, Victor, you have the best hands ever," she praised, and it was absolutely true.

Then she gasped of unexpected pleasure when she felt the tip of his claws graze across her back, slowly, all the way down to the bikini bottom.

"God, Victor, don't do that!"

Fortunately, the man knew exactly when her 'don't' meant 'I'm loving it'. His claws slid to her side and went further down to her thigh, then danced over it till they got to her inner thigh and Isabel bit down on her lip to catch the moaning from escaping. Damn the provocative tease! What was he trying to do? The claws of his other hand scraped the small of her back and she did moan. And then he grabbed her bikini top back straps and clasped them in place. The stupid jealous jerk!

"Get up!" He slapped her ass. "Let's go for a walk."

Flushed with arousal and annoyance, Isabel sat up and glared at him. Though why she insited in glaring at him she didn't know. The asshole clearly loved it!

Victor grabbed her by the back of her neck and pulled her into a kiss and Isabel gave in, grabbing his hair and pulling it taught. She dropped her weight and Victor followed her down to the towel, his hands going over her body, his claws scrapping a bit too sharply and making her moan through the kiss.

"Dumbass," she grumbled when he stopped, and she wasn't quite sure if she had said it because he was a jealous ass or because he had stopped making out.

"Come on," he said in Spanish.

"No," she groaned peevishly, kissing his neck and sliding a hand down his abs.

The man grabbed her wrist and forced her hand onto the towel way too harshly.

"Victor…"

"Shut up, an' stop it," he ordered sternly in English. "Ya don't keep yer hands t'yerself, I'll end up fuckin' ya right here, got it? Ya're a freakin' tease, woman, and it's startin' t'get me pissed."

But he'd been the one teasing relentlessly!

"Com'on. Let's go down t'the water an' go fer a freakin' walk. I need t'go fer a dive, anyways."

Isabel complied, but first she placed the towels over the bags so they wouldn't be so inviting to anyone walking by.

Victor went straight into the water and dove in, swam to and fro for a few minutes, while Isabel stood, water up to her knees. When he came back to her side he put his dripping freezing water arm over her hot shoulders.

"Quit complaining," he said, back to Spanish, wading through the knee-high water.

"I'm not complaining. I'm getting my breath back after being frozen to the bones. You're getting me all wet, you know!"

The man chuckled, good mood back in place, apparently.

"You want me to really get you _all_ wet?"

"No, thanks," she grumbled.

The beach was long, so they had much to walk. Being almost 10.30 am, the crowds were starting to arrive but there was still enough space that Victor and Isabel didn't have to swerve from anyone on their lazy path.

Families were having fun, either playing in the dry sand, next to towels and sunshades, running and jumping in the shallow water or digging up forts and pools. Isabel smiled at a toddler that made a sprint over the wet sand towards the water, only to stop still before he could splash on half an inch of advancing water.

"Can we bring him here?"

"We won't be staying in Portugal for that long," Victor reminded her.

Still she smiled over the fact he had known she was talking about their son.

"Yes, but… I meant can we bring him to the beach, like this. Are there beaches like this in America?"

The man laughed.

"You're nuts! Do you have any idea how many miles of beaches, thousands of miles!, North America has?"

"I know. I saw Baywatch, ok? But they're always so crowded and so dangerous… This beach, for example, has lots of natural pools that are perfect for toddlers and young children. I've never seen any beach like this in Baywatch."

"Don't be stupid, mi Nesita. With so many miles of coast, of course there will be beaches like this."

"Yes, but are they near Canada?"

"Well, not near enough to drive there and back in one day, but we can simply rent a house… No, wait! I can buy us an entire beach. California has these little beaches, all private like. If I buy the whole area, a big property, we can have a private beach with a beach house in the middle of the trees… It's best to get a place with lots of trees so that people can't just use binoculars to spy on us or anything. Anyway, we can have a beach house with a private beach where you can sunbathe with your bikini top unclasped all you want."

Isabel had to laugh at that.

"A quiet, out of the way spot," he added thoughtfully. "The house will have to be near the beach but on higher ground. California is tsunami prone after all. And it'll be built with cutting-edge earthquake resistant technology, obviously. It'll also have to be far from any main roads… a tall concrete wall all around the property, but with a buffer of trees separating it from the road, so it isn't conspicuous… two rows of electrical fences… hidden cameras… tripwire alarms… Yeah, it'll be the perfect beach house."

It sounded safe, alright. Completely lonely, but safe.

"Won't that be very expensive?"

"Forget money!" He grunted. "It's safety that's important. I'd give up all my money, all my properties, all my everything just to make sure you and my son will always be safe."

Isabel glanced and noticed Victor's deep frown, so she leaned on his side and embraced his waist.

"Am I teasing?" She asked, hoping to divert him from his brooding thoughts.

He rubbed her shoulder distractedly and stopped, still frowning. Isabel followed his deepening frown to a couple of older women, sitting on the wet sand and chatting as three toddlers played in the low surf with plastic toys. A fourth child, a baby that still preferred walking on all fours, though he already knew how to stand and walk, kept getting away from the women towards the other children, who either ignored him or played with him, fleeting and carelessly.

"Ain't that dangerous?"

He'd slipped to English?

"They're watching the children," Isabel said in Portuguese, "so no, it isn't. I mean, the water is up to their ankles, the little breaking waves barely reach their knees…"

"What if they fall down? Babies can drown in less than two inches of water, ya know?"

Isabel frowned. That was a very specific number. Had he been looking up that kind of information or had prevention campaigns made it common knowledge in the US?

The baby got up on his feet and started going for the bright blue bucket in the girl's hands, but she pushed him aside and he tumbled forward, falling on his hands with a splash. One of the women stretched an easygoing arm, never once dropping the conversation, and pulled him to her side, which turned the whimper into tantrumish fuss while the other toddlers ignored him completely.

"They're all old enough to pull themselves up, Victor." Isabel said softly. "Besides, the grandmothers are right there. Didn't you see them?"

"Yeah, but they're chattin' an' they seem way too distracted," he insisted in a low voice. "I mean, they didn't even stop the older one from pushin' the baby."

Isabel breathed out. The man had no experience with children. It was about time she started giving him pointers.

"Of course they don't. And they won't unless the olders get too rough. That is how chidlren learn, Victor. It's normal. And it's also normal that the grandmothers aren't staring at them. They are still paying attention and will cut in the moment something is wrong, but they are also giving the children the right amount of freedom and autonomy appropriate for their age. If you are constantly hovering over a child, telling them to do this, don't do that, they grow up to be scaredy and insecure. They won't learn how to get themselves out of trouble, no matter how slight, and they won't know how to think by themselves because someone is always there to do so for them. That, my love, is exactly how young children should play: with an illusion of freedom to learn how to act all by themselves, but always feeling safe because they're not actually on their own."

The man was still frowning, but he nodded after a while.

"I guess it makes sense," he grumbled. "Ya gotta learn t'be self-reliant from a young age, right?"

"Yes! While knowing that, if you really are stuck, Mamma and Pappa will be just around the corner, making sure they're safe. Because learning to be self-reliant means the child feels safe to go out on their own because… because their parents and their family are a safety net that will never let them down."

"Ok," he nodded, and resumed walking.

His eyes were still trained on the children, though. But it was good, Isabel told herself. He was getting ready to be a father. He was looking around him and imagining himself with his son. The problem was that he had no idea how children behaved, and Isabel really had to make sure he knew that before the boy was born. Isabel felt a sudden worry… what if she ended up losing the baby, after all? But then she shook her head and leaned harder onto Victor. His arm tightened around her shoulder and she forced herself to let go of the worry. Leave it in God's hands. She'd made her promise to Our Lady, anyway, so… her son would be born. Their son.

With her stubbornness and Victor's stubbornness adding up to a toddler's natural knack to be stubborn and aggravating, Isabel really had to prepare the man so he wouldn't fly off his handle. She remembered her little cousins, the ones she'd gotten to meet as babies and toddlers. Aggravating was an understatement.

* * *

Isabel sometimes felt a bit bad about it, but Grandma Lilia had told her it was so, and chick magazines said the same. Therefore, Isabel took it as fact: men need to be praised for their strength and good looks. That was really what had started the whole 'tower of strength' thing. She'd been trying to praise the man. He was not easy to praise. Either he was in a good mood and gloated, or he grumbled and turned his back on it. Tricky.

Apparently, though, he had liked that particular metaphor. Isabel thought it was cheesy but, hey, if the man liked it, she'd use it! After all, he did make her feel safe and strong. And he was a tower, tall as he was, not to mention strong. For as long as he didn't go around treating her like a weakling frail, she had no problems glorifying his strength.

"Okay, I call," Isabel said in English, since the man insisted it was the only language poker can be played in. "I have… three of a kind. You?"

Victor yawned and threw his cards onto the blanket.

"Two pairs," he grunted, reaching for the meat pastries.

Hun? Two…

"Dat means I win? I win! I drive back to Lisbon!"

She'd been betting the chance to drive back, and her last move had been an all or nothing kind of bet.

"Ya can drive fer half an hour," Victor mumbled through a full mouth. "I don't trust ya on the wheel fer the whole trip."

Oh, for the love of God!

"Of course, my love."

She hurried the cards into their box to prevent any more bets that he might invent. Although, to be honest, she wasn't sure if he hadn't lost on purpose. In the last ten or so games, Victor hadn't lost a single time and he was facing this loss way too easily.

Isabel laid down on the blanket next to him and looked up at the pine tree branches swaying lazily in the late afternoon breeze.

"Dis isn't nice?"

"Huh? Yeah, it's nice. I didn't say it wasn't."

Isabel breathed out and closed her eyes. Time for a little after-lunch nap. With any luck, she'd convince Victor to come to the beach a few more times, but she wasn't taking any chances. Right now, she was treating the trip as her last one and was trying to gather as many memories as possible. Sleeping in his arms… or at his side, to be exact, in the middle of the summery pine forest was one of the memories she wanted to have.

"Are ya tired?"

Uh… Yeah, maybe a little, since the man had kept her walking along the beach almost all the way to Setúbal, and that's miles! Unfortunately, that would make a great excuse for him to tell her she couldn't drive.

"You don't have to be tired to sleep a siesta," she said, avoiding a direct answer. "Wid de hot of today, you always sleep de siesta. Is tradition."

He didn't answer and she cracked an eye open. He had his eyes closed, too. Pleased, Isabel got ready to sleep.

"Ya chose a place t'go on our honeymoon yet?"

Isabel breathed out but didn't open her eyes.

"Well, you complained so much about de roads to here, maybe we should go to Alentejo. Has very big areas widout people or houses, but de roads are big, usually straight and in good condition."

"Half deserted, ya mean?"

"People used to call it de desert for a reason, and isn't because is very dry in summer. I mean, Alentejo is very dry and hot in summer but dat isn't why dey call it desert."

"So maybe it ain't a good choice. We need t'have docs and a hospital nearby, remember?"

"Beja, Évora and Portalegre are de more important cities in Alentejo and dey have hospitals. We can find a holiday house or a hotel in de city, or outside but near."

"Ok. And are there religious festivals an' parties?"

Isabel sighed.

"Of course. Every town has a patron saint and dey have a festival to celebrate it. But I don't know when dey are in Alentejo. I only know de area of Santarém and Lisboa. Was my territory."

"Ya think we could stay fer at least a month? I'm fed up with cities."

Isabel opened her eyes. There were bells ringing in her mind. He was fed up with living in a city? A city that he had dissed as an overgrown village stuck in the past and which was an old-fashioned backwater hole, compared to Dallas or New York where he had houses?

"Of course, I don't see a problem."

Somehow, she didn't think the man really had a problem with the city. He was probably pissed over all the night partying almost two weeks ago, which was why he had asked about religious festivals and parties. Add to that the man's annoyance over the nosy neighbours and she could guess he wanted a place with no neighbours at all.

Victor turned over and kissed her forehead.

"Ya still gotta choose a place ya're gonna like."

Yeah, that was it. He was probably aiming to stay as long as possible in whatever place she chose, with his blessing.

"Ya do like this Alentejo region, right?"

He traced her cheek with two lazy claws and Isabel felt shivers up her spine. She did not lose track of her future plans, though: the wedding was only a month away and that gave her very little time to choose an appropriate place.

"Is beautiful," she said, getting a sudden idea. "I'm going to buy a guitar."

"Ya got a funny way of askin' fer my permission," he smirked.

Isabel slapped his shoulder leisurely and he grabbed her hand, bit her fingers softly.

"I'm not asking persmission;" she giggled, trying to get her hand away, as if he'd let his quarry escape. "I am informing. _And_ … uh… Victor, listen, dis is important."

He let go of her hand and frowned, attentive.

"I want to know what is de present of wedding dat you want dat I give you."

Groaning, he rolled his eyes.

"Whatever. I ain't picky."

Then he nuzzled her neck and breathed in. Isabel loved when he did that, which was more and more often these days. Sometimes, she could swear she could hear him purr.

"Ah… Well, _I_ 'm picky. But you already gave me my present: de Portuguese guitar."

Creed growled softly and looked at her. Isabel made an effort not to giggle.

"Wait a minute, lemme get this straight. Ya wanna buy another guitar? Besides the one I gave ya?"

That showed how much attention he had been paying.

"No, love, dat is a _Portuguese_ guitar. But I also want a classic guitar. You know, acoustic guitar. De type of guitar de majority of people think in when you say 'guitar'."

He frowned, probably annoyed.

"I know what ya're talkin' 'bout. I ain't stupid. Why d'ya want two guitars? And I mean it as in 'two similar musical instruments'."

Isabel made a very serious face, holding back her amusement.

"You prefer dat I say I want a piano?"

"I already gave ya a synthesizer."

She laughed, putting her hands over his shoulders and then sliding towards his neck, trying to pull him down to her.

"A synthesizer isn't a piano. Similar, but different sounds and different feels, just like de guitars." And a quick getaway from the topic. "You want dat I give you a box to put cigars or cigarettes for your present? I saw some dat were very, very beautiful, but I think I prefer dat you choose so is perfect for what you like."

"Sure."

Great! Especially because he yielded to her pressure and once more nuzzled her neck, biting it lightly. Oh, she loved that sensation! Then the man started trailing kisses down her neck, his claws caressing the skin of her breasts on the rim of the bikini top. Isabel's sleepiness ebbed away completely.

"Victor, love," she arched her back suddenly, to undo the clasp of the bikini top, and his claws pressed harder on her skin. "You certain no one can see us from de road?"

She felt silent laughter rumble through his chest.

"Why d'ya think I pressed the jeep into the woods as much as I did?"

"Den what are you waiting? Take de jeans off."

Because she still wanted her nap, but it would be so much more gratifying after some sex. After all, the man had been right from the start, about having sex out in the open. Well, out in the woods. Having sex outdoors is so much better than always being stuffed inside a house.

* * *

Creed jumped away and froze, crouching. Mediterranean pine forest. Blinking, he finally realised where he was and looked back at the blanket he'd been napping on. Isabel was sitting, looking at him with wide, guarded eyes.

"What! What're ya starin' at!"

He got up, growling and walked away.

These nightmares just had to end. He recalled the painful bite of the belt buckle hitting him on the back and over the shoulder, but the memory was already vanishing. He'd been locked in that blasted basement again, but this time there had been no yanking of fangs and claws, no chains, only the buckle of the belt raining down everywhere. And his father, always faceless whenever he managed to recall the dreams, had been swapping faces between Logan and Graydon. Damn! He clawed a tree trunk and growled. Damn.

Where was he?

Creed sniffed the air. In the distance, he could hear the vague rumble of the breaking waves.

It was probably not a good idea to leave the woman alone, though. These woods weren't like Canadian ones: they were always too close to roads and people, so anyone could come across her. He headed back.

He heard her soft singing before he saw her.

"Whatever happens

I am here,

whatever happens

I'll wait for you."

It was a sleepy melody, melancholic. The woman was reclined on the driver's seat, the door open. It reminded him of a comforting lullaby.

"Come back with the wind

my love

come back quickly

please."

He came closer, quietly, as she lifted her voice and langorously promised "whatever happens I am here".

"Hey, cut that out!" The woman jumped up. "Quit that damned wailin'. Sounds like ya're dyin' or somethin'."

"Sorry," she said, sliding off the jeep. "Is everything ok?"

" 'Course everything's fine!" He grumbled, looking around to tell her to put the picnic basket and the blanket back in the jeep, but she had already done that so he just growled again. "Why the hell wouldn't everythin' be fine?"

"Victor, listen. I know you said I can drive but… uh… can be you driving if you prefer."

After all the woman's insistence? He looked at her and got ticked by the worry on her face.

"Just get in the damn jeep an' start drivin'!"

* * *

"The only marmelade I know of is made of orange an' lemon or somethin' like that," Creed grumbled, looking at the fruit in his hand. "Ya say ya can't eat it raw?"

Isabel swerved away from a hole in the asphalt, going onto the opposite lane.

"Uh… Is not dat you _can't_ … is just… you only use marmelos to make marmelada. I never heard of anyone eat de fruit raw."

She had been driving carefully enough, and although she did keep driving about 10km above most limits, she was careful to adapt the speed to the road conditions, so he avoided complaining when she did something less careful. There weren't any cars coming on the other lane, after all, and swerving was better than collecting every bump on the road.

"And ya pick 'em from wild trees on the side of the road," he grumbled.

Because _that_ he had not liked. It was not safe charging a car off the inch wide shoulder of the narrow road and into a grass-ridden ditch to collect fruit from trees whose branches leaned onto the road. Obviously, the woman thought differently, because she laughed and claimed that the damn fruit was like… something or another. He didn't know the name of all types of fruit and vegetables, not even in Spanish. Anyway, this type of fruit tasted better stolen, apparently.

"I'm gonna look it up online."

The only reason he'd allowed it in the first place, was because the woman had insisted she had a mad craving for marmelada, and she refused to eat the commercial kind. It had to be home-made using her grandma Maria's recipe to have that perfect taste she loved so much.

"Quince cheese," he said. "The fruit is quince, an' marmelada is quince cheese. Dulce de membrillo. Had never heard o' this."

Good thing Portugal was so small you could have hi-fi access to the Internet even in the middle of nowhere.

"You're going to _love_! Just wait." She glanced over at him. "Queen cheese, you said?"

"No, ya dimwit. _Quince_. Quince - cheese."

She repeated it correctly a couple of times.

"Are quince trees in Canada?" Creed laughed at the preposterous idea, but then he reconsidered… "O-kay. You think we can buy quince in Canada?"

Southern BC was supposed to have a weather good enough for delicate fruit trees. Maybe it could grow there.

"Prob'bly. I don't go about lookin' fer exotic fruit."

He didn't go around looking for any fruit.

"Bom, we don't have enough to make a good quantity, so we stop again when I see more quince trees, ok?"

"No! You got enough fruit, an' stoppin' like that is dangerous."

Isabel chuckled softly.

"You know, for a man wid your powers and wid your career, you worry _a lot_ about dangerous."

It caught him off-guard.

"It's _you_ I worry 'bout. Ya're carryin' my son, remember?"

The woman was silent for a moment.

"I'm not a frail," she ended up saying softly.

She had gone wild the few times he'd called her that, still down in Mexico. She had a thing against being seen as weak. He guessed it was one of those 'truth hurts' kind of reactions.

"A little bit of… is not danger, but… we don't have to always live in afraid of something bad. I mean… A kid can get in trouble. Dat means dat we never leave a kid alone? Until what age? Ten, twelve, fifteen, seventeen? Never give him responsibilities because things can go wrong? What I am trying to say is dat, of course bad things can happen, and of course we have to be careful but… is not to be extreme and live afraid."

He understood what she meant. You have to have some sort of balance. He agreed with that whole-heartedly.

"Parkin' the jeep barely off the road next to a curve is invitin' an accident. It's the complete opposite o' bein' careful."

The woman breathed out.

"I don't stop in curves, Victor. I stop where oder cars can see us and not hit us."

"Ya can stop if there's a wide enough shoulder," he conceded.

Though it was no concession: there was practically no shoulder in any place of the road. The woman groaned lightly.

"Serious, Victor, you are too… too… ' _not_ _safe_ '. Is not fun."

What?!

"It ain't supposed t' be fun! It's supposed ta keep ya _safe_! That's the whole point!"

Isabel was silent for a while.

"I am not provoking, ok? Is just a fact. You know I had a serious boyfriend and we even talked about marry, right? I told you dat before."

Ok, this was going to get into full-blown, aggravating provocation, wasn't it?

"Well, right now, you remember me of him, and I don't like dat."

Huh? Creed frowned, not quite understanding the provocation: how the fuck could he, Victor Creed, remind the woman of a pimpled loser?

"What're ya talkin' 'bout?"

"I wanted to kiss him when he was driving, and he always said no because ' _is not safe_ '. And nothing is safe to you too."

Creed shook his head. Something wasn't adding up here.

"Ya wanted ta kiss the loser _while_ he was drivin'? What for? So he could get distracted an' get into an accident? Which part of 'not safe' d'ya have trouble understanding?"

"Pelo amor de Deus!" The woman burst suddenly, and her irrational anger actually got Creed's attention. "We were in a highway at night, complete straight roads, almost no cars, no rain, _no_ problems. What is so dangerous about it, hun? But I understand. _I understand._ Is a man thing, right? You get inside a car, and everything is 'not safe'. Is OK. I understand. Is a _man_ thing."

"Have ya gone demented?"

Because she had. She was simmering in stupidly righteous anger over the safety of something that was obviously dangerous. Mood swing at its worst!

"No, no. I _completely_ understand. Man are afraid of everything dat isn't follow de rules in de road and… I don't know! I don't understand. Are you capable of explaining to me how kiss someone dat is driving in a straight road, no cars, and dat is still going to be looking at de road… How is dat dangerous? Is not like we kiss for five minutes! Is what, two, three seconds? You lose more time changing de radio."

She really didn't get it!

"Ok, woman, first of all, I ain't afraid o' not followin' no rules. Secondly, ya kiss a guy who's drivin' and he is gonna get distracted an', very likely, he is gonna get into an accident."

The woman humphed mockingly.

"Only if he can't drive. I drove wid lots of distractions and I never had accidents. You know why? Because I'm a good driver and I know how to control what is happening."

Creed shook his head.

"Ya mean ya're suicidal," and she was never getting behind a wheel again. Not if he could help it.

The woman took a deep breath and blew it out.

"Ok, fine. Forget what I said. Is just my problem because _I_ am suicidal. Is like you want."

"Damn right it is!"

Isabel went into a sulky silence and Creed growled. Because he knew what she was thinking: It's a _men_ thing; you're _afraid_. A men thing! Stupid asshole. As if _he_ was afraid of anything. But it was exactly what she was thinking, wasn't it? Just like every other man, afraid of breaking rules. Afraid of distractions. Afraid… As if he, of all people, would ever be afraid of whatever! She thought he was afraid, did she? Well, he'd show her!

Creed unbuckled his seatbelt and, as Isabel frowned in surprise, he reached out and unbuckled her belt too.

"O qu…"

He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to him at the same time as his left hand got a grip of the steering wheel. The woman scrambled sideways and her foot pressured the gas pedal and then hit the brake, causing the car to jerk before stabilising.

"Let go o' the wheel," he growled. "An' watch those feet on the pedals, Miss Driver in Control."

Her eyes were still wide in surprise, her left hand gripping his leg for support, and Creed kissed her. His eyes did not leave the road for one instant, though. It was definitely not the best road to pull this kind of stunt, not with all the turns and twists, but the woman needed a lesson and she'd have it.

The problem was that Isabel… Isabel was suicidal! She kissed back, almost ferociously, while her left hand swapped the steering wheel for his knee and her right one slid off his thigh towards his groin. It was an awkward, uncomfortable position, but she still kissed demandingly, fiery, distractingly. Damn the woman!

He pushed her back onto her seat, held on to the wheel till she had both hands in place.

"Deus, Victor! You're crazy! Dis not… is not de road for things like dis! God!"

"What? Don't tell me ya got scared, did ya?"

"No," she whizzed, an excited half-smile on and not the slightest hint of fear in her scent, either now or a moment ago. "No… God!"

Creed buckled his seatbelt again, and the woman hit his stomach with the back of her hand without warning.

"That was spectacular! God! You're even more crazy dan me! In a road like dis?! I was talking about _highways_!"

She chuckled, electrified and eyes shining with glee.

"Buckle up!" Creed grumbled, although a bit more softly than the woman deserved. "Don't ya know ya can't drive without yer seatbelt on?"

Isabel's excitement was contagious, though, especially because the stupid stunt had been a bit… let's say amusing.

"You're de best, Victor. Absolutly de _best_!"

Yeah, he knew that. No need to get hysterical about it. He helped her buckle the seatbelt, before she decided it was ok to get her hands off the wheel to do so all by herself.

"Fer someone who gets all ' _I can't eat_ ' when there's an adrenaline rush, ya're turnin' out ta be a fuckin' adrenaline junkie."

"Oh, is completely different! You are comparing situations where you can die wid…"

She hesitated and he complemented: "With other situations where you can die?"

"Is different," she insisted, a bit more subdued. "Dis, what we did now, is… is like playing wid de bulls. Of course you _can_ die, if things go wrong, but dey are not going to go wrong because you know what you're doing, you're careful. Is one chance in a million dat you die. And in America… dat was situations dat is not difficult to die. Is like one chance of die in two or three. Is _completely_ different."

That was why she liked to stir up fights for others. She wasn't he one risking a beating; it was her friends. No need for queasy stomachs if the punches weren't going her way.

"Ya're still a suicidal adrenaline junkie."

She laughed. Creed realised they were now driving through a patch of the road with several quince trees loaded with fruit but Isabel hadn't noticed it. Guess the stunt had had good consequences, after all.

"You know, maybe dat is why I like you."

Huh, what?

"What did ya say?"

"You're dangerous," she said. "Maybe dat is why I like you. You're exciting and… Ah, look!"

There was a path off the road, probably into an agricultural field, and Isabel pulled over.

"You drive de rest of de way."

Another good consequence! The minute they had swapped places, though, and even before he had had the chance to buckle up, Isabel leaned over and pulled his face gently into a quick kiss, basically lips on lips.

" _Dis_ is what I wanted do," she explained. "But I think we're going to have to practise a little, until it isn't weird."

Creed frowned.

"Practise?"

"Oh, vá lá! If you can kiss like dat and for dat long in a difficult road like dis; in a highway wid long straight roads, is going to be great! You can do dis safely, wid your experience, reflexes and high senses; you can do dis _very_ safe. You know you can."

That was not the point…

"I have to discover a way of do dis widout take off de seatbelt," the woman said thoughtfully as she pushed the belt and studied its strength.

"We ain't gonna be doin' this on a regular basis," he told her, turning the car on and getting back on the road.

"No?" She said quietly.

"No."

Isabel sighed, a deep, slightly fake sigh.

"I said _no_."

"Yes, I heard. We don't do dis on a regular basis."

"Good."

Though she hadn't sounded convincing.

"I can live wid do dis only in _occasional_ basis. No problem."

Creed growled.

"Quit playin' games, woman. Ya understood what I meant perfectly well."

"I know," a naughty smirk lit her eyes. "But I can dream dat you change your mind, right?"

"No."

She didn't insist. She didn't have to. The freaking woman was the devil and she had gotten the idea stuck in his head. After all, was it really that different from when he was driving with one hand under her skirts? Forget kissing! He was imagining himself driving while she gave him a blowjob. Raven had done that a few times and he knew for a fact it was great.

Creed growled to himself. Tomorrow he'd have to focus on finishing off his alias to contact his clone, and then he'd have to start working on another alias to take jobs. Maybe he should focus on Europe. Northern Europe, especially. But maybe…

"Cook some more 'picnic food' tomorrow," he told Isabel. "We're coming back to the beach on Wednesday."

The woman stopped breathing for a moment, but she was smiling. Guess she'd been dying to return.

"But I wanna go t'a different beach. I didn't like this one."

Just to make sure she didn't think she had actually won him over to anything.

"Ok, of course! Are millions of beaches in dis area."

Exaggerated. Damn, the temptation was eating him up.

"Ya wanna get kissed on the highway, huh?"

"No," she shook her head with mock haughtiness. "I want dat _I_ kiss _you_ when you're driving."

Even better.

"If ya really wanna do that, ya may wanna warm up with a blowjob."

She gasped.

"In de car? In public?"

"There are almost no other cars goin' around."

He glanced at her as her shocked expression morphed into a devilish smirk.

"You better not complain I am distracting you, love."

He chuckled, taking the challenge.

"If ya ever manage t'distract me, I'll stop buggin' ya t'go into the water on the beach."

She laughed.

"And who says I want dat you stop?"

Great answer! He grinned. He'd get her to learn to swim before the baby bump got in the way.

"Fine. Then I'll let ya drive whenever ya feels like."

"Dat's a bet?"

"That's a fuckin' bet alright."

"De bet is accepted," she stated and sat sideways, adjusting the seatbelt.

"You're the fuckin' devil," Creed smirked as she started unbuckling his belt.

"I prefer dat you call me devil dan suicidal, because I have all intention of be de devil right now."

"Do yer best, Nesi."

Raven could indeed distract him from the driving. In fact, she'd made him miss a curve more than once. But then again, the woman did possess some very special skills. Isabel, though she might be trying some new stuff, was still far from being able to distract him. Ruth might be able to do it, but not Isabel. It was a pity, really. Of course his woman only had a few months of experience. If she kept it up, she might get close enough to Ruth's second place.

"Give it yer very best."

If she did get the skill to distract him, he'd willingly let her win the stupid bet.

* * *

song (freely translated as 'whatever happens'): Haja o que houver, by Madredeus

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	32. Lisbon: It's a Girl!

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **32\. Lisbon: It's a Girl!**

He was painstakingly escaping the basement where he'd been caged and tortured for so long. It didn't look like a basement, not with the window opening onto a forest, but he could still recognise it as the basement he had called home for all of his life.

He reached for the door latch and lifted it. It was one of those old fashioned things: a bar of metal that simply needed to be lifted. He would reach up for it, use all his strength to push it up, but then it would fall back into place before he could open the door. What to do? His father would be back any time! He had to escape before that.

Outside, the wind was blowing through the trees and leaves were blowing in through the window, crippled and brown, but on he persisted, working on that latch, fear and frustration making him sweat and focus harder. And then the door burst open.

Falling backwards he looked up and there was a tall, stocky figure taking up all the door frame. He shivered and rolled into a corner, making himself as little as he possibly could.

"I've told ya, boy!"

"I'm sorry, Poppa, I'm sorry," he whined automatically, the words falling heavily, empty and useless.

Then the shadow figure came closer and, all of a sudden, there was a shotgun in his hands. His heart started beating wildly. The shotgun was lifted up, held in place… and his face was visible.

"I'm going to get rid of all your kind, once and for all," Graydon growled.

Creed stood still. In his mind, a little voice breathed in relief that it was a dream.

"Ya're finally gettin' t'doin' somethin' right, huh, boy?"

Dream, his ass. Nightmare. Creed growled at Logan, who had just appeared next to the still gun toting Graydon.

"Finally settin' things right," the runt grumbled, his clothes haggard and his face bitter. "Fix 'im, boy. Fix 'im once an' fer all. That's what good sons do, ain't it?"

And the shotgun went off.

Creed sat up with a gasp. Fucking dreams! He got off the bed and went into the bathroom. It was already light outside. Damn!

That's what sons are for…

The dreams had been getting easier and easier to recall, much to his annoyance, while getting progressively crazier and maddening. It was either Mystique edging Graydon into killing him, or Logan. Or then a stupid birthday party where Logan kicked his ass, when, in reality, it always happened the other way around. Or then Mystique came in and turned into Isabel and said they were having twins, only both women ended up having a pair each, and once they were born, the four turned out to have Graydon's adult face. And to think he had once grumbled against not remembering his dreams!

He got into the bath and got the water running.

Why was the damned dream so vivid? The basement… though now he was awake, he could see it for what it had been, a cabin.

That's what sons are for.

Cold water washing over him, Creed was fully aware his unborn son was at the root of the dreams. He'd read about it. Men can have crazy dreams when there's a son on the way. He was fully aware of it. He even understood the recurring topic was because of his worries over how the boy would grow up. He wasn't stupid; he knew. The book he'd gotten, for example, referred pregnant women's dreams a lot, and had a couple of lines saying men have them too.

Isabel often dreamt with water, as it's apparently typical. She dreamt with river floodings a lot, she said. Despite her fear of water, though, she wasn't bothered with the floods at all. She was busy carrying all her family – in the shape of dolls – over to the safety of a second floor building. She carried them in a little boat loaded with guns so, she laughed, there was nothing to be afraid of not even in the dream. Or then she was too busy cooking and her only worry was piling bricks under the stove so she could keep on cooking. Flooding is a yearly occurrence in her home town, Isabel had also told him, she was way too used to the lazy rising of the water for it to be scary, even in dreams.

Dreaming with scary stuff, the book said, meant fear and anxiety (what a surprise!), while the opposite meant the mother-to-be was adpating well to the new stage in her life. Creed was certain the lack of anxiety was mostly because the woman felt safer in her native country than in the continent she'd been tortured in. It made sense.

Although, the woman did have less pacific dreams, even if she rarely elaborated on them.

He wasn't alone on that. She might not wake up sweating or crying, and she swore (truthfully, according to his nose) that they had nothing to do with her torture, but she did have scary dreams too. The difference was that she wasn't getting them as often as he did, nor as strongly, and, whatever she dreamt of, it sure did not include her son shooting her dead.

Knowing the reason behind his stupid nightmares did nothing to fix the problem, though. The idea that he'd have to put up with these stupid dreams throughout the entire pregnancy pissed him to no end. Oh, if only Birdy was still alive! Sure, she mostly helped him get a grip on his bloodlust, but that didn't mean she didn't fix his nightmares on occasion, when they got out of hand.

"Good morning," Isabel chirped, barging into the bathroom. "Sorry, but my bladder is about to burst. Have you been up for long, love? You could have woken me."

Grumbling, he got off the bathtub and reached for the towel.

"Today is the day," she beamed in Portuguese. "If he's in a good position, the doctor will finally confirm he's a boy and then we can officially choose his name."

She'd been going on about it every hour of the day over the last two days. Relentlessly! My boy, your boy, our boy. Your son, my son, our son. It did not deviate from that. Creed had told her to stop 'conjugating verbs' jokingly, had told her to cut it out seriously. She was still relentlees. His son, her baby boy, their miracle child. It made him even itchier.

"Victor," Isabel purred as she got ready to shower. "That really is the best name ever for him, isn't it? But you really have to think about his second name, love!"

Because that much the woman had decided – and he agreed completely – the boy was going to be named Victor. Victor something de Fátima Creed-Kredall. Creed didn't really understand why he had to have such a long name. No one would use all those names when they got to Canada. The kid would have a freak name! But Isabel had insisted that a proper Portuguese name is naturally long, not to mention that having a second first name meant you didn't need to use Junior.

"Junior is a name for spoilt brats, and my son will be neither!" She'd explained several times in the last two days.

So, once the sex of the child was confirmed, all that needed deciding was that second name. And he, Victor Creed, the father, was to be the one choosing the second name. Something like Victor Emanuel or Victor Hugo, maybe Victor Gabriel. Or he could choose to swap the order and go for João Victor or Carlos Victor or, or, or. Good thing he was the one choosing the name, right?

Creed had finished getting dressed and was getting some money to go downstairs and buy some fresh bread when Isabel came out of the bathroom wrapped in her towel.

"I've been thinking," she said, opening the drawer of the underwear. "Maybe we can go to a bookshop and buy a book of names when we come back from the appointment. Ha! I bet you never thought you'd ever hear me talking about buying books, huh?"

"We can just check names online," he grunted, getting the key. "It'll have t' be a name that sounds English anyway."

* * *

Isabel was nervous. Creed could see it in the way she smiled, the way she popped her knuckles, the way she either babbled on or went for long silences.

Creed breathed out carefully, so no one would notice it. Truth be said, he might not be at his most relaxed state either. The fact that the doctor had warned them that getting the sex of the baby on this ultrasound, while possible, wasn't likely (that, in fact, it was highly unlikely), didn't help.

Creed already knew the female technician. It was either her or another guy who did the weekly ultrasounds Isabel had to have, due to the high risk of developing problems. Obviously, he preferred the woman. She was talkative, too, which seemed to make Isabel more at ease.

"Ok, here we go… Oh my, you are lucky!"

It was visible? Creed held his breath and looked at the indecipherable images of the scan.

"Look at this! You're having a baby girl!"

Huh?

"What?" Iasbel asked, lifting her head.

Had the woman said girl? As in, not a boy?

"It's a girl, honey," the woman repeated. "Congratulations!"

His son wasn't a boy, then? I mean, his… his _daughter_ wasn't a boy.

"It's so rare we can check it this early. I had a lady come in yesterday…"

A daughter. Creed kept staring at the screen, trying to see any tell-tale sign that confirmed what the technician was saying but he couldn't make out anything besides the head, the arms and the legs. A _daughter_!

"…on her 20th week and we still can't… Hey, honey, it's ok."

What was ok? Creed snapped out of it and noticed the silent tears running down Isabel's face. What had happened? Creed came over to Isabel's side as she shook her head and said it was ok, she was fine… then burst sobbing uncontrollably. What the fuck!

"It happens," the technician turned to Creed. "It's the emotion of seeing one's child for the first time… I mean, in your case, of learning the sex of the child. Especially after all the uncertainty over the baby's health. I've just finished the scan and everything is perfect, ok, Mr Kredall? Why don't I give you two a few minutes, huh?"

"You can start buying her clothes in earnest now, honey," the woman rubbed Isabel's arm reassuringly then winked at him. "Congratulations, dad."

Creed watched her go. Dad?

Isabel's sobs didn't ease up, though, and he helped her sit up. Dad.

"What got inta ya, Nesi?" He asked in English, his mind half-worried by her meltdown, half-bogged down by that word, dad.

He really was a dad, now. Would be.

"Nesi, stop it! What the hell's wrong?"

He had a daughter! A little baby girl. Would have.

"Isabel! Knock it off already!"

"It was supposed to be a boy," she sobbed ridiculously. "It was supposed to be _our_ _son_."

Was the woman serious?

"Cut it out," he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. "It's a girl, Nesi! Don't you get it? A _girl_!"

There was no way a girl could ever turn into Graydon, or a similarly hateful half-assed bastard.

"But… I really, _really_ wanted to give you a _son_ …"

"Don't be stupid! Why the hell would I wanna have a son?"

So he could turn out like Graydon? So he could grow into an aggravating piece of shit? So they'd end up fighting? So one of them would end up killing the other? So… He could hardly believe he'd been losing sleep over a stupid fixation that he was going to have a treacherous son!

"A girl is way better!"

So, so much better! Girls are nice and sweet. Of course he was going to teach her to hunt and fight and stand her ground and be a kicking, punching bad-ass, but… They're still sweet and… and thoughtful, well-behaved, supporting, smart, accomodating, lively, subdued, attentive… Sure, women can be naïve and dumb and have all sorts of soft spots for everything and everyone, but not _his_ daughter. No. And, besides that, girls aren't dumb, arrogant, back-stabbing jerks… well, they can be, but not his daughter, and, anyway, boys are dumb and arrogant and stupid assholes in totally different ways and a girl cannot be like that because… because she's not a loser of a boy!

"A girl is _perfect_!"

He could see her! Smiling devotedly at him the exact same way Isabel did and packing a gloves-off badassery level worthy of… of… Mystique flashed through his mind. No, not like her. Mystique was an unnaturally cold hearted bitch. She had tried to kill her own newborn son and her supposedly beloved foster daughter. And it wasn't that he had a problem with parents and children trying to off one another, but it was still unnatural for a mother to do that kind of stuff. She was definitely not a normal woman. No. His daughter, his baby girl, she would be all natural! Sweet and deadly.

"Victoria Isabel," he said. "Doesn't it sound perfect? Victoria Isabel!"

Creed laughed and kissed Isabel, grabbed her head more securely trying to instill the magnitude of the good news into that stubborn skull.

"I'm havin' a _daughter_!"

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	33. Lisbon: The cat has left the bag

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **33\. Lisbon: The cat has left the bag**

Creed was still feeling elated as he entered Mariana's. He wanted to tell everyone the news but Isabel had said it was too early, wait another couple of weeks, and he'd given in. He had also started thinking about clothes. Because babies needed clothes, right? And if his baby girl was going to be born in early January, then she'd need tons of clothes! Babies need to be well covered up, even he knew that, so they don't get colds. They're delicate, babies. They need time and care to grow big and strong. They need lots of food, and sleep, and… lots of stuff! They also need hats to protect their little bald heads. Not to mention they grow very fast so they need tons of new clothes every… every week or so, he supposed. How fast did they grow?

Now that he was out of the house, it occurred to him he should have spent the afternoon looking up stuff about how fast babies grew and developed. Of course he hadn't been wasting time: he'd been choosing a dozen targets for his clone. It was boring work, going through the possible victims and being careful to make sure there was some sort of line connecting them all. Extremely boring! Especially since his mind kept wandering to his daughter.

"We should go to the beach tomorrow," Creed told Isabel as Dona Lúcia brought them the usual coffee and juice.

There were always tons of families out there… well, he assumed there were. At least there had been in the last three times they'd been to the beach. He wanted to watch the little girls and see how they acted. He'd never paid attention to kids before, especially not girls. Never in his whole life! And though he had a good inkling into how grown people think, kids… he needed to understand what made the lil' runts tick before his girl showed up. Like hell was he going to get blindsided on that account.

"Uh… We have a meeting with the priest tomorrow, remember? The wedding is next Wednesday."

Oh, right. He really was distracted. Okay, let's set priorities: first, he had to finish lining up the dozen hits during the weekend and hire a middleman so that his Clone might be on a high-profile job on Wednesday, while he was getting married. He'd do that over the weekend. Weekends are way too crowded, so he'd distribute the last minute shopping for the wedding, his second priority at the moment, over Friday and Monday. Maybe he could take the chance and start buying stuff babies need – better stock up early on, rather than leave it for the last minute. He'd wanted to do so that same day, the minute he'd been out of the doctor's, but Isabel hadn't wanted to. Yeah, he knew it was early, he knew her baby bump was barely visible and he knew it was going to take months for the girl to come out, but still! It wasn't as if it was a smart idea to delay buying a truck load of stuff for the day before the birth, was it? Speaking of trucks, he better start checking car safety seats for babies.

Which reminded him: this Portalegre city they were going to was more of a backwaters town, from the looks of it, so it might be best to buy the baby stuff before they moved there. That was the third priority: making a final call on the two houses Isabel had elected. They'd have to go to the place a second time before he made that decision, though.

Creed got distracted from his thoughts when the old guitar players and singers invited Isabel to go over and sing something but she excused herself with an unusual 'later'. Weird. She never turned out an invitation before. Come to think of it, she hadn't had much appetite at dinner, either.

"Are you feeling ok, Nesita?" He asked her in a low voice.

Isabel shook her head, hissing at him for using her nickname so freely. But it wasn't his fault Nesi and Nesita flowed better than Isabel!

"Anyway, today I intend to sing only once and just before we leave."

It better not be because of the baby being a girl instead of a boy. He'd been fed up with how long those tears had lasted.

"Why's that?"

She didn't look at him as she whispered what sounded like 'a vote'. He'd probably misunderstood the Portuguese word but he shrugged. Singing only a song meant they'd leave the café earlier and he wasn't going to oppose that. He could start checking baby developmental stages.

As he had expected, Isabel had barely finished her juice when she asked him if he was ready to go, since then she'd just sing her song and afterwards they could leave.

"Be my guest," he grinned.

Isabel got up and talked to one of the old men, Zé. He played an instrument that was very similar to the Spanish guitar and which he lent to Isabel the moment she asked for it.

Creed wondered what she was going to play and sing. She rarely did that, and only after practising in the house for a few days, but she usually practised on her new Portuguese guitar, not that one.

The woman sat and held the guitar in a slightly awkward way, then she closed her eyes and sat there for a couple of minutes.

He wasn't the only one who was curious. Most of the patrons already knew how powerful her voice was, but they were also familiar with her sometimes loud friendliness and ease of speech, so this new attitude spiked a relatively silent curiosity.

She started playing. Creed recognised those first notes immediately: she was playing Bach's prelude, the more famous one, and which Isabel played a lot. And then she started singing Ave Maria.

Creed had heard her sing pop and rock music, he'd heard her sing all sorts of Portuguese music. Lyrical music, though, that was a first. She sang with a deep voice, contralto, he thought it was called, but she put forth all her power and her voice filled the place. It resonated inside him and a shiver ran up his spine. Glancing around, he could appreciate the solemn silence.

The woman sang with her eyes narrowed, her gaze on the guitar which she kept playing, as her expression changed from sorrow to tender-like at the rhythm of her voice. And even if she played the melody more slowly than she did on the synthesizer he had gotten her, back in Vancouver, the words didn't sound too slow but just at the right speed. Mesmerising.

As she drew out the last Ave and her fingers plucked the last notes, there was absolute silence in the café. Then it was over. She closed her eyes and lowered her head as if praying. Creed understood then. Not vote, vow. The woman was religious and, if her constant mentions of Fatima meant anything, she hadn't just been singing right now, she had been praying in song. Like gospel or something. And the audience obviously understood it, as a couple of old women crossed themselves and the praise was subdued, if vehement.

He didn't care for none of that, though. It had been a show like no other. Really, he wouldn't mind if she let go of the fado she insisted in wailing and swapped it for lyrical. The power of that voice was… something else entirely! He'd even put up with religious songs. At least their lyrics aren't depressing. Still, it didn't have to be religious music, there's a lot of opera arias that would showcase her voice wonderfully.

Isabel approached with an aura of solemn gravity and Creed got up. Dona Lúcia was picking up the empty bottles from their table and looked up to state it had been breathtaking.

"Thank you," Isabel said.

Creed had it stuck in his throat, though, and got it out on the spot.

"You should sing like that more often, Nesita."

Because she should. Really should. He was sick and tired of fado every single evening.

He didn't imediately understand why she was pale. Why she had suspended her breathing. A couple of steps away, he noticed Dona Lúcia look back with a fleeting frown, but then she continued, and Creed still didn't understant what had just happe… Damn. He'd called her Nesita aloud.

As if on cue, Isabel grabbed her handbag and headed out.

Great! Just freaking great! Drama all night long!

They walked in silence all the way to the cramped apartment, and the moment they were in, the woman glared at him with sizzling fury, eyes swimming with unshed tears.

"So," there was venom underneath a hateful grin. "You would never call me stupig, loving names in public, huh?"

It grated against his own annoyance.

"It's yer own damn fault," he shot back in English. "Ya goes 'bout doin' yer best ta make me slip and act sappy 'bout ya."

The woman blinked and straightened up.

"One fucking secret," the Portuguese swear word rolled easily out and contrasted with the flat iciness of her tone. "You can't keep one fucking secret if it isn't yours. If that is the type of respect and care you have for me, I have seen more than enough."

"I didn't use your real name," he pointed out. It had been a stupid accident, no need to get so upset. It wasn't as if he enjoyed going about calling her Nesita for all the world to hear.

"And Nesita is short for what? Not Isabel. Tomorrow, someone will be saying my name is probably Inês Isabel ou Isabel Inês. Or what? You think people are stupid, is it?"

Creed growled as the woman got undressed. But as she sat on the bed, she stopped and remained quiet for a second.

"You know," she said in a ruthless, if misleadingly soft, tone, "that I keep my promises. Even if it kills me, I keep my promises."

The memory chilled him. If you tell my name to anyone, she had said back then, I won't be your woman anymore. He snarled and lept over the bed, got a hold of her arm, forced her to look at him.

"Are ya threatenin' ta run away from me, woman?"

"No. I only remember you my promise," she said slowly in English, her anger clearly visible in her eyes, audible on the soft fierceness of her voice. "You pray dat no one divines my true name. Pray to every saint dat you don't believe and to de devil too. Maybe _he_ hears you."

He pushed her back roughly onto the mattress and let go of her. His claws were about to slide out and he didn't want to risk harming his unborn daughter.

"Even if it kills ya, huh? What about yer child? Ya'd have her killed too, would ya?"

The woman did not swallow. She didn't blink. She made no expression that could even faintly point towards a yes or a no. She simply continued to glare icily. It took him aback a bit. Would she risk running off on him even if it meant the baby might be killed? No, she was bluffing. She was no Raven Darkholme, and she knew he wouldn't harm his own child.

"If you was any oder man," she said disdainfully, "I would have kicked you out off dat door and you would never dare to even talk wid me again."

Once upon a time, Creed had wondered what the woman would be like, angry and free to act on it.

"I ain't any other man."

"No. My bad luck."

She turned her back on him and got inside the bed covers. In an attempt to control his own anger, Creed got out of the apartment but stood outside it, on the landing, growling and wondering where in that blasted city he could go to vent his fury safely.

He heard the crying then. Convulsively, just as that same morning during the ultrasound. It calmed him a bit because it meant the woman really had been bluffing. She had just wanted to get back at him. It could even have been a mood swing powered up by the pregnancy.

Maybe. But there had been clear ruthlessness in her voice, a promise of retaliation in her eyes.

Vindictive. He had never known that side of her and it gave him a sense of insecurity. She had once told him he had no idea who she was, what she was like. She'd been right, at the time. She had turned out to be a party girl with a death wish, and while the latter might not be that much of a surprise the former had been. And now he showed her vindictive side, even if she'd only been bluffing. Because she had been bluffing. He still couldn't help wondering just what exactly she could be capable of doing, if she ever felt hurt enough.

Huh? Who was the woman talking to?

Creed glued his ear to the door.

She was speaking in Portuguese but, in between the speed and the sobbing, it was hard to understand it all. My punishment… loving … man who… about me… no respect… I know… he doesn't care (repeated a number of times, that one)… only cares about himself… what can I… uh… guide? Ave Maria. She was praying now. She had been talking to the Virgin Mary then? Religiously dumb. But hey, if she was going to pray and cry herself till she got calmer… Be my guest!

He walked out of the building and onto the street. Where to now? He started walking blindly.

It occurred to him he might want to do something to calm the woman a bit. Getting upset is one of those things doctors advise pregnant women to avoid. No strong emotions. And even if he didn't really care if she was pissed or not – and over such a stupid thing! – if it could harm his unborn baby girl…

Why did that stupid petname have to slip out? If she hadn't sung so spectacularly, it wouldn't have happened. And it was sheer bad luck that the café's owner had been close enough to hear it too.

Speaking of the devil, Creed found himself next to Mariana's. Two women were outside, one complaining about the old jackass of the grocery store, the other just listening and… Actually, the other old woman was the jackass's sister-in-law, who lived opposite Creed's house, on the second floor, and spent all day keeping tabs on everyone's movements from her window. She even ate at the window!

What a brilliant idea! Isabel was always explaining how things were done here: this is how you act, this is how you speak, this is how you eat, this is how you drive, this is how you fix problems, this is what people think of you when you do that or the other. If a person annoys you, she had explained, you can either face that person and risk a confrontation that'll end badly, or you can complain to a friend of the annoyer who'll act as a go-between and try to talk the annoyer into changing whatever they're doing wrong.

That's all he had to do! Because Isabel was too stubborn and too pissed to listen to him when he told her it had been a stupid accident and it didn't deserve all the drama and tears she was wasting over it. But she might listen to someone else. Why not give it a try? When in Rome…

He went in and called out to Dona Lúcia in his best Portuguese: "The strongest drink you have, please."

"Isn't Isabel with you," she asked as she approached with a bottle of strong Portuguese spirits and a small glass.

"No, she went off to bed. She's a bit pissed. It's the hormones."

The woman frowned and leaned on the table, curiosity getting the better of her.

"Hormones?"

Creed nodded.

"She's pregnant," and he was keenly aware a couple of heads had turned at the sound of that sentence. "Fifteen weeks. And it's a girl!"

He drank the entire glass in one go while the woman gasped in an exaggeratedly happy surprise and congratulated him.

"It asks for celebration!" He carried on, as loud as he could without being rude. Just to make sure the word got around. "But Isabel got annoyed when I called her Nesita. She's really sensitive with the hormones and all. Cries about everything, good or bad."

The woman was all sympathetic. It happens. But it's just for the first months… unless she was like whoever who lived with whomever down in whatever street and whose mother had worked wherever. Her mood had spent the entire pregnancy swinging about. Had even thrown her husband's clothes out the window because she had gotten in her head he was cheating on her. On her eighth month!

Isabel had better get her hormones under control. For a minute he wondered if that kind of spectacle was what the woman had had in mind should he have been 'any other man', as she had put it.

"Anyway, she doesn't like it when I call her Nesita. I don't know why! Do you think it's a stupid name? Here." He pulled out a chair for her to sit and held out his glass for her to refill. He was still trying to use Portuguese words, but Spanish kept popping out instead. "Because I'm thinking this is a Portuguese thing. You just don't like nicknames, is that it? Do you have a nickname?"

"My uncle used to call me Lulu," she sat down. "That is worse than Nesita."

"Well, tell her that, won't you?" He swallowed down the glass and held it out for more, though the woman hesitated. "She says it isn't short for Isabel, will you believe that? Spanish nicknames never sound like the names. Just look at José, Josepe, Josepito, Pepito, Pepe! It's the same thing. Isabel, Isa, Isita, Nisita, Nesita. Obvious, isn't it?"

"Well…"

Creed shook his head and finished the third glass. "Chabeta is also short for Isabel. But do I call her that? No. I call her mi Isa, mi Nesita. It's much nicer."

"That it is."

"Maybe Nisita sounds more like Isa and Isabel. But I prefer Nesita. You know something, I look German. Everybody tells me that. But Germans are cold people. If you were German, your husband would call you Dona Lúcia, just like everyone else."

She filled the glass for the fourth time, though only half way, as she laughed at the stiff nordic formality.

"Formality, that's the word. But I'm Spanish. I don't call people close to me by their baptism name. That's for acquaintances. Am I to call my own wife Isabel as if she were a neighbour I barely know? Of course not! That's just wrong. I'll call her a nickname that no one else calls her. Nesita. Don't you agree with me?"

He finished off the glass and Dona Lúcia got up. Behind her, there were at least three women who were clearly listening in, and a couple of men seemed half interested in checking whether he'd hold the strong brandy. Because that drink was strong. Homemade, too, according to what Santos, one of the guitar players, had been telling his domino game partner a minute ago.

"One last glass for the road," the woman asked as she poured the glass to less than half. "I'm sure Isabel has forgotten all about her irritation by now."

He'd probably be paying for five glasses when it should be three and two halves.

"Yeah, I guess I should go."

Creed wondered for a moment if he should pretend the drink had hit home. It would further spice the gossiping and spread the Isabel – Nesita connection. He was good at this, spreading rumours. Just give a hint of problems in heaven and everyone was dying to hear the details.

"See you tomorrow, Dona Lúcia," he called out on his way out, ostensibly greeting every face he could remotely connect either to a name or an address.

Isabel was always chatting and gossiping so she knew who was who, who lived where and how they were all related, but he didn't bother to keep up with her. Nevertheless, he guessed acknowledging the people, even if a bit forcibly, would lead them to talk about him and his pissed would-be wife. What a hassle for a lousy nickname!

Isabel wasn't sleeping when he got back, but she did her best to pretend she was. He responded in kind and pretended he believed her ruse. He wondered how she'd behave in the morning, having had more than enough time to cool down. She'd better have gotten over it. Damn, the shit he put up with for the sake of his baby girl.

* * *

It was almost midday when Creed, sitting at the kitchen table and busy on his laptop, heard the front door open.

"It's about time you got back," he called out. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost between here and the grocery."

She hadn't cooled down in the morning. Well, she had a bit. There had been no glaring, no accusations, no comments; just a whole lot of silence. But Creed knew he'd played his hand right. It was a matter of time until she realised she'd blown it all out of proportion.

He turned around to face her as she entered the kitchen and couldn't help the grin.

"So, did anyone call you Inês?"

She put down the bag and glared at him.

"You talked to Dona Lúcia."

"Sure I did! Why wouldn't I? I talk to her every evening."

She was not amused. Creed decided he would have to spell it out so he switched to English and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Look, if I calls ya Nesi an' Nesita half the time, someone's bound ta hear it sooner or later. Especially since these walls an' floors are paper thin. It's best if I calls ya that in public an' make sure everyone thinks it's a Spanish nickname fer Isabel. Now com'ere."

The woman breathed out angrily but didn't say anything. Instead, she came closer to his side as instructed.

"See here this Wikipedia entry on Spanish hypocorisms? I've just added Nesita. I did the same on some blogs, leavin' comments wi'the nickname, and on some sites fer baby names. Now everyone can check that Nesita stands fer Isabel."

"But it comes from _I_ nesita. From Inês."

She was aggravating.

"Well, what about Sam. It stands fer Samuel, Samson, Samantha and anythin' that starts wi' those letters. If Sam can stand fer several names, why can't Nesita stand fer two?"

She didn't answer.

"As I was sayin', I've added it t' the English an' Spanish wikipedia. Now I'm gonna add it t'the German one and after lunch ya'll add it t' the Portuguese one. And ya can check some Portuguese sites to add it, too. The more sites it's on, the more it'll be accepted as an actual nickname fer Isabel. An' _that_ is what ya want, right?"

"What about people that don't go to the Internet?"

"Are ya bein' difficult fer a reason? You just explain it an' make sure the people will circulate the information. Ain't you a specialist in spreading rumours an' stories? It's all the same."

She didn't answer.

"Get on with lunch, will ya? I'm gettin' hungry."

Not to mention the interview with the priest was early in the afternoon and he didn't want to get late.

"Have ya checked with the shop if yer dress will be ready on Monday? And if it'll actually fit?"

Because her four-month baby bump was clearly visible now. Sure, most people might not notice it because the woman wore lose clothes around her waist, but it would be visible with the dress.

"Yes," she answered in Portuguese. "I'll get it first thing on Monday morning, and your suit, too. And it is going to fit. I asked for a dress with an empire waist to avoid calling everyone's attention to my belly and to avoid being too tight."

Good.

"What about the guests an' the musicians?"

"What, you didn't talk about it with Dona Lúcia yesterday?" Creed snarled. "The band that played in Santo António will play as I enter the church and then again after the cerimony is over. The fado guitar players will accompany me while I sing Ave Maria. The band will also play during lunch at Mariana's, and Dona Lúcia is collecting the confirmations of all the neighbours who'll join the church cerimony and lunch. There are twenty-six confirmations so far _including_ Zézé and his frient Toni."

Creed frowned. What was that loser cooking up?

"It's probably because of the food, in case you're wondering. Dona Lúcia and her staff will not be doing lunch, obviously, since they're guests, so they're simply opening up the establishment for us to use. I contacted Tasca Antunes, which belongs to Toni's family, and they're the ones who'll be making and serving lunch. The two assholes decided to accept the open invitation probably just so they could be jerks."

Which meant Creed would have to stop by Zézé's place again and warn him to behave. He wasn't going to have his wedding go south, even if a fight might be entertaining.

"What about the flowers?"

"It's all taken care of, love," she sighed. "The only thing we're behind on is the honeymoon."

That didn't bother him. The honeymoon was really just an excuse to move out of Lisbon after all. Creed had already talked to the doctor so he could write a letter to Portalegre's hospital, where Isabel would be followed, detailing her history. They would not move before he had that.

The woman sighed tersely.

"What now?" He grumbled.

"Have you told anyone anything about our honeymoon?"

"No, why?"

"Because no one with a little bit of money is going to spend their honeymoon in the middle of nowhere. It's just too stupid. One goes to a beach resort abroad, or a five star one in Algarve. If one isn't into beaches, one may go to the mountains or a famous city like Barcelona or Venice or something." That made sense, he supposed. "Besides, it'll look weird if we leave for our honeymoon and just don't come back."

That got Creed's attention.

"What d'ya mean?"

Isabel put a fist on her hip.

"I'm not stupid. It's obvious you want me tuck away in a place without neighbours and killer parties." Always smart when she shouldn't. "So I'm thinking about telling everyone that your employers are going to transfer your consultant position from New York to Madrid. That means being close to Lisbon's airport stops being a priority and that you prefer to relocate to somewhere nearer to the Spanish border since I'm insisting on staying in Portugal."

"Seems fine by me," he grinned smuggly.

He had figured the woman would start some drama over the whole move and was beyond pleased she was instead ready to help the move go smoothly.

"OK. That means that we'll move to our new house and will only go on our honeymoon later on. I say we go to Mayorca, at least officially. I don't really want to go anywhere, but you can stop by when you go on one of your jobs, take some photos, photoshop us in, buy a few souvenirs – magnets and postcards or keyring-trinkets – and I'll send a few of the photos and souvenirs to Dona Lúcia. It'll be a reminder of our existence and will also work as a farewell. What do you think?"

"You're the fuckin' devil," he grumbled.

And she was. She planned this stuff with an attention to detail worthy of Raven, but unlike the blue mutant, she treated it as if it was a casual matter rather than the sign of a superior scheming mind. It was unsettling in its indifference, but it was also alluring in its cunning. Exciting.

"Oh, and don't forget! We're going to Fátima on the day after the wedding and you're going to have to act all religious for at least that one time." She had to ruin the effect. "It's part of _your_ cover story, remember?"

Yeah, because the priest working on his conversion – which would happen on Sunday – had a pal working in the Sanctuary. He couldn't wait to get out of Lisbon and away from all this nonsense! There was really only one reason for him to keep on putting up with all the irritation of trying to fit into that close knit Portuguese community.

"Com'ere."

Isabel sighed and got closer, letting Creed pull her loose T-shirt up and rub her belly. Then he stooped and placed his ear on it. Isabel already knew the drill and stood absolutely silent. He could hear it, now. He'd first recognised the faint sound five days ago and he just couldn't get enough of it. His baby girl's beating heart. Strong and steady. Fast. He breathed in, enjoying the scent of the woman, imagining he could sense his daughter's scent amidst hers.

Then he got up and traced Isabel's face with a claw. She didn't smile, though.

"You really have to get those mood swings in check, mi Nesita," he told her in Spanish. "They aren't good for my daughter."

Isabel smirked, unamused.

" _Our_ daughter."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	34. Lisbon: The Wedding

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **34\. Lisbon: The Wedding**

It was another sacrifice. If this didn't concern his own flesh and blood, he wouldn't go through it. An entire day of acting happy and blissful. He didn't know how the woman managed to do it!

Creed finished shaving and went to the bedroom where his three-piece suit awaited.

"Maybe I should'ave gone fer a cerimony at the Office Registry," he grumbled. "Would'ave made the whole thing much more simple."

He said it in English. He was going to have to spend the entire day speaking nothing but Spanish and mangled Portuguese, so he might as well have a break while he could.

"Hu-huh," Isabel responded from the bed.

The woman was still lazying about since she wouldn't be getting dressed till he was out of the house. Dona Lúcia had insisted. Since Isabel did not have any family or proper matron and maids of honor, she'd taken upon her shoulders to fill in as many roles as she could. That meant Creed would get ready and go to Mariana's, where the traditional buffet breakfast would already be served, while Dona Lúcia and her sister-in-law got Isabel dressed, including make-up and hair-do. There would also be a photographer taking typically clichéd bride and groom photos and only then would they venture to church.

"Have ya eaten yet?"

Isabel nodded. She would be going straight to church, so she wouldn't have a chance to stop by the breakfast buffet. The only good thing about this traditional wedding was that rehearsals did not exist. In fact, when Dona Lúcia had tried to get in charge of the organisation, the first thing he'd said was 'no rehearsal'. The woman had had no idea what he was talking about, nor had Isabel for that matter, and once he'd explained it she'd been scandalised with the whole concept.

"Are ya gonna stay in bed till the women show up?"

Isabel sighed, a tinge of exasperation.

"Yes."

"Shouldn't ya be havin' a shower?"

"I have time."

Creed growled as he put on the vest.

"Ya better not be thinkin' 'bout keepin' me waitin' fer half an hour in the damned church."

"It's out of my hands," she dropped the documents and looked up at him. "But I promise I'll leave the house as soon as the matron allows me."

"What the hell are ya starin' at in those documents? Don't ya know all that shit by heart yet?"

"I'm comparing our dates of birth," she said softly. "According to this I'm 26, so I'm five years older than in reality, and you're 34, so you're… How many years younger than reality? I'm afraid I don't know how old you are."

"Join the club."

"Hun? You don't know your age?"

"Over one hundred, give or take a decade," he grumbled as he started on the tie. "Got my memories scrambled badly by the military so I don't recall many details 'bout my childhood, which is fine by me. Anyway, my original name is probably not Victor Creed 'cause the government could never find any birth certificate under that name, no matter how much they looked. _If_ they looked. 'Course most people didn't go to hospital to have kids a hundred years ago, nor did they always register kids born at home, so I may have been named Victor Creed by my parents, just not registered. But, like I said, it don't mean nuthin'."

He put on the tail-coat.

"There, I'm ready."

"You look magnificent," she smiled. A bit forcefully. Guess he wasn't the only one who was going to have a hard time putting up with the day. He smirked at the thought.

"Ya're lookin' a bit down fer someone who's dreamed 'bout her wedding fer years. Don't tell me ya don't feel like partyin' today of all days!"

She glared lightly.

"For your information, I hate weddings."

Huh?

"That's a big change o' heart. Didn't ya tell me once ya loved 'em?"

Isabel sunk into the pillows sulkingly.

"A wedding is only worth it when it's big and it's crowded with family and friends and everyone is really, honestly happy for you. I can't have that, can I? So there. I now hate weddings."

Creed hesitated.

"Ya're gonna have ta look happy anyway."

She shrugged, frowning and not glancing at him.

"No really. I can just look emotional and nostalgic. Because my family isn't here to see me and… and I can always say I feel so happy I feel like I'm in a dream so… for as long as I smile to the people and the camera, nobody will give a shit."

Her bad mood aggravated him.

"Well, ya could at least _feel_ a bit happy."

She scoffed and looked at him with an annoyed expression. It really pissed him off.

"Why the hell not! Ain't ya madly in love with me? Ya should be fuckin' happy ya're marryin' me!"

Her pout and frown gave way to a glummy sigh.

"Is not about you," she said softly in English. "Is about de party. I dreamed wid a fantastic, perfect party and…"

A knock on the door had them both alert. It was the women, surely.

"Try t'be fast gettin' ready," he grumbled.

Isabel, however, lept out of the bed and grabbed him by the arm.

"Kiss me," she said. "When you open de door and dey come in, kiss me like is de end of de world."

She must mean it as a passionate 'see you soon' kind of kiss to give the impression of a rosy heaven. It sure was easier to look passionate rather than happy. It's not like these people were going to distinguish between lust and love, anyway.

Isabel was putting on a robe as Creed opened the door and Dona Lúcia walked in, all dressed up, with her equally dressed up sister-in-law and… uh… a brunette in jeans and T-shirt.

"Who is she?"

"This is Martinha. She'll be doing Isabel's hair and make-up."

"Congratulations," the woman smiled, not convincingly.

"Well, we need to start working on the bride so off you go! Oh, by the way, Jójó, the photographer, is already at the tabern. When Martinha's done, she'll stop by to tell him he can come in and start taking photos."

Creed nodded. That better be fast. He felt a tug on his coat sleeve and looked back at an anxious looking Isabel. He'd almost forgotten! He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into a bruising kiss.

"Don't take long," he said. "I'm impatient."

The woman smiled and he left, which is to say he closed the door and growled. He was so not in the mood for this. Isabel had better get over her bad mood and hurry up.

* * *

Isabel had allowed Dona Lúcia to run the show. Hair, make-up, veil… everything. She didn't care. She didn't even think about what time it was and whether Victor would be getting impatient.

It hit her harder as she approached the church.

They were in the middle of a city, when there should have been greenery all around, the sight of the river behind her. The yard outside the building was empty, when it should have had plenty of people, either because they couldn't squeeze into her small hometown church or because they were just curious to watch the bride and the guests go by, to gossip and criticise everyone's clothing, especially the bride's. Her dress, white and flowy, with a very full skirt sweeping the floor, would have been the topic of much talking because of the dark red sash hugging her waist and matching the dark red hem of both dress and veil, instead of the cheap pearly empire waisted dress she was wearing, which made her look shorter than she already was.

The church itself was pretty, but it was not the one she'd grown in. And then she was walking down the aisle alone, when she should have been flanked by her godfather and maternal grandfather. The amateur band played the nuptial march, when there should have been the local choir singing it as her old music teacher played the piano. The pews were nearly empty, when they should have been filled to the brim. The priest looked welcoming, but did not have the smile one reserves for a woman he saw grow up, coming into mass every Sunday and getting into trouble at least once a month.

And then, there was Victor.

Where he stood, had once stood Miguel, in old plans and dreams. Isabel could look about her and say exactly what her wedding should look like, but she looked at Victor and she couldn't even begin to conjure Miguel's figure. It occurred to her he had never been an important detail in any of her plans. She must have worried more about flowers than about him. How could she have thought she liked him enough to marry?

Victor, however, was… perhaps a bigger mistake than Miguel, in a sense. Isabel would have been able to call him her husband, her man, hers. He would have belonged to her, as they spent life side by side. Victor would never be hers. Even if he wanted to belong to her, heart and soul, even then she could never claim him for her own. To have and to hold all days of our lives till death do us part. All days of our lives meant such a radically different thing for Victor!

Isabel went through the cerimony the way she'd gone through the preparation. She said the right words, did the right gestures, sang Ave Maria faultlessly, slid the ring and had it slid, kissed, walked out at the sound of a cheesy pop song rather than a choir rendition of Beethoven's Ode to Joy, and got sprinkled with rice. They walked from the church to a nearby overview, rather than be driven in a horse-drawn carriage. At the overview, she stood in the required poses and smiled for the camera for half an hour, instead of spending two or three hours posing with every guest at a lush wedding venue, with sprawling gardens, horses and even a young bull to run after the most adventurous. Of course the animal's horns would have been covered, to prevent any bloodshed or serious injury during the party, but it would not prevent bruises and laughter. Isabel did not need to see any photos to know her smile was soft and gentle, rather than bright and joyful.

At lunch, there was music and she led Victor around the tables to thank the few guests for their presence. There was kissing, eating, more kissing, more eating and plenty of joking. There was fado, and she sang some too, there was dancing, there was more kissing, more eating, more dancing.

It was dark when they left Mariana's.

The house seemed untouched when it should have been turned upside down by a troupe of maid of honors led by the matron. Kitchenware should have swapped places with clothing, lewd pictures and less than helpful sex instructions should have been written on mirrors with lipstick, the bed should have been remade in such a way as to prevent the married couple to get in, and a myriad of sex related objects should have been so carefully placed, they'd be coming across hidden condoms and lube for weeks.

The bedroom mirror held a single word in bright red: "happiness". The bed had been remade, too.

"I'll fix that," Victor grumbled. "As fer _you_ , get rid o' that make-up an' take a shower. What the hell did those women do? Poured a perfume bottle all over ya? I swear I can barely recognise ya by scent!"

Isabel sighed and complied.

Looking at herself on the bathroom mirror, she felt like crying.

Over one hundred years and he looked like he was in his thirties. If one hundred years amounted to thirthy years in his book, then, fifty years from now, Isabel would be in her seventies and Victor would look like he was… what? In his late forties? It was insane! To marry means to grow old side by side and she had just married a man who...

"Hey, hurry up wi'that!"

"Going."

She opened the water.

How was that going to work out, their aging difference? Well, obviously, it wouldn't. Which meant that this marriage and this being Victor's woman would only last until she was… for as long as she looked young enough to please him. One day, he'd realise she was piling up wrinkles and he'd go looking for a younger woman. So much for belonging to him forever, huh?

She knew the man lived mostly in the present, but hadn't he thought about this at all?

Or maybe she should simply follow his example. Live in the present, enjoy the man while she had him around and… and not think about the future. At least for the time being.

She switched off the water and got startled when she noticed Victor leaning on the door, frowning thoughtfully.

"Why so moody?"

Isabel snorted. Like hell she was going to tell him what she had on her mind. If he hadn't thought about the problem, he'd end up pissed; if he had thought about it and had chosen to ignore it for whatever reason, he'd end up pissed too. Either way, she didn't picture him giving it much importance and she had had a bad enough day that she could live without more drama.

"I'm tired," she shrugged, wrapping herself in a towel.

He didn't say anything and Isabel made up her mind to get over the day's moodiness. Victor had needs that needed attending, and he was often very good at repaying her attentions.

"More specifically, tired of kisses dat don't go nowhere," she said in English, since that was his preferred language.

She smirked playfully at him and was glad to see him grinning wolvishly.

"Come on," she dropped the towel and closed her eyes as he embraced her. She felt him breathe in deeply, enjoying her perfume-free scent, she supposed. "Do your magic and make the world go away, my love."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	35. Alentejo: Moving In

I'm sorry: I did it again and failed to upload the chapter last Saturday. I really have to stop doing this late at night. I'm uploading last Wednesday's chapter today and Sunday's tomorrow.

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **35\. Alentejo: Moving In**

Both houses that Isabel had chosen were old farms. They had land with some trees, they had yards with flowers, and there was a small, anything but wild, pine tree wood lining the end of both properties. Unfortunately, they were also stuck in a labyrinth of such narrow, ditchless roads, that Creed had no idea how they were still considered roads with two lanes. There was no way you could cram two cars side by side.

Isabel had waved that concern impatiently. There were plenty of moments when the roads were not lined with walls, so that a car could easily get off the road to give way to incoming traffic, if need be. It wasn't as if there were tens of cars going by every hour. Most cars were even small vehicles, nearly half the width of their monster jeep! No. The only problem might be when a local farmer drove his tractor along the road. But how often would that happen?

Creed had chosen the house closer to the end of the narrow labyrinth.

On the day of their arrival, at two pm on a scorching August day, Isabel had gone out of the car and marched straight into the yard, inspecting each tree. Then she'd turned to him and smiled.

Isabel was on her 19th week, four months and a half. Her belly was starting to be obvious and he loved both the look and feel of it. He couldn't wait for the fifth month, when the baby started kicking about. Since Creed did not want Isabel wearing clothes that were too loose and kept him from enjoying the view of his growing baby girl, and since the weather was extremely hot, she had decided to wear a loose midriff top.

A hand on her hip, and the unforgiving light of the sun hitting her full force, Isabel's body looked perfect.

"The fig tree, the lemon tree, and the peach tree are loaded. We've got the basic fruit covered for the summer. Come October, it'll be orange time. Better than this, only if there was a pear tree. Good choice, my love."

As if she hadn't been the one choosing the finalists he had picked this one from.

"Get out of the heat and int' the house," he told her, getting the keys.

There was a grapevine planted next to the entrance door, growing over a small rustic trellis and heavy with grapes.

"Ya fergot t'count another fruit staple," he said, opening the door.

Isabel laughed and stopped to pick a bunch.

"Get in already," he grumbled.

"I'm going! I just got a craving for some organic grapes, that's all."

It was an old house, even if it had been completely recovered. The walls were slightly irregular and extremely thick so that the interior was cool even without need of air conditioning. Unfortunately, the rooms weren't very spacious, but it was still far better than the Lisbon shit hole they'd been living in. And best of all: no neighbours! Well, there were neighbours, but their lands were several feet away. He could speak in his native English as loud as he felt like that it wouldn't harm his cover in the slightest.

"Ya can quit speakin' Portuguese all the time now," he said. "There's no one t'hear us."

"Love of my life," She snapped immediately. "Get some sense in that soul of yours. I'm Portuguese, my language is Portuguese and I am in Portugal. I'm not giving up my language just because people can't hear me. You don't want to speak Portuguese? Fine by me. But since you understand me well enough, I am not going to turn English all of a sudden. Have saintly patience, love! I have plenty of years to bury myself in English."

She sighed, upset, and sat down on the sofa.

"I'm going to relax for a few minutes, if you don't mind."

Of course he didn't mind her resting! That stubborness about not speaking English, though… But it was still no problem. He'd find some motivation to get her off her linguistic bastion. He'd realised by now he could more easily get her to do as he wanted when he didn't try to force her. That only got her more stubborn and unreasonable.

"I'll go get the bags," he warned. "Get yer feet up. That was a long trip and I don't want ya gettin' swollen feet nor diminishing the blood flow t'the baby."

"Yes, love."

He knew that tone. It meant 'I totally disagree with you, but have it your way'. It didn't bother him because it meant she was going to obey so it was actually a good thing to hear her say.

Outside, it looked as if they were stranded in a little farm in the middle of nowhere. It was amazing that they were actually less than a ten minute drive from the hospital, and less than a fifteen minute drive from both the market and the supermarket. It might not be as convenient as Dona Ana Maria's grocery's around the corner, but it was worth the peace and quiet.

Creed took the four suitcases out of the car and once more frowned. When they'd come to Portugal, they had brought a single suitcase each. Sure, there had been some shopping for the woman in the meantime, and plenty of shopping for his baby girl in the last four days, but that still didn't justify the two extra suitcases Isabel had packed. Nor how heavy they were.

He carried them to the bedroom wondering how baby clothes and toys could weigh so much. Curious, he opened the suitcase instead of leaving it there for Isabel to unpack. What the… Isabel had packed books amidst the clothes? Isabel, the anti-book? He picked one up.

"What are you doing!"

Creed turned at the horrified gasp. The woman was petrified at the door, face so red it could burst at any time, especially as she was holding her breath.

"Kamasutra?"

She remained petrified for a long minute, clearly trying to decide what to say. Creed stiffled an urge to laugh and crouched to pick up another one. Basic sex positions and variations. He dropped the first book and flickered through the second. Plenty of illustrations, just the way she liked her books.

Creed did not offer resistance as he heard her steps running to him and then got the book taken out of his hands. He laughed when he looked up, though. She was flushed with embarrassment and almost in anguish.

"Stop it!" She finally snapped. "That's not for… uh… Give me that!"

She stooped to grab the other book he'd dropped and then kicked the suitcase aside, getting in between it and him.

"Go away!"

Like hell he was! He got up and grabbed her chin, but she shook her head and stepped away, too flushed to hold his gaze. Creed grabbed her arm and pulled her to him.

"Why d'ya wanna keep yer books away from me? I can't join in the fun, is that it?"

"Stop it," she grumbled sulkily.

"Fer a sex hungry lil' minx, ya're actin' way too bashful."

Creed pushed the books out of her hand and pulled her into a kiss. She wasn't aroused just then but that wasn't a problem. Half the time the woman teased him into dropping his pants, she was everything but aroused. Not that she wasn't easy to get wet, but when the woman wanted to be held or comforted, she asked for sex rather than a snuggle. He had always assumed she was aware he wasn't big on that cheesy kind of stuff and he actually appreciated she didn't ask him to do it. Creed showed it by prolonging the foreplay till she was spiced up. It was no trouble getting her in the mood anyway.

"I say it's high time I join yer private fun."

She was still resisting, though, and he couldn't fathom why. He picked one of the books and pushed her onto the bed.

"Let's see… Missionary and variations… cowgirl and variations… No wonder ya've been so creative lately."

He really should have figured she was getting ideas somewhere.

"Stop it, Victor. I'm _serious_!"

She was? Creed looked away from the book. Isabel was sitting on the bed, still bright red, and she seemed a bit tormented. He didn't get it.

"What's wrong?"

The way she glared, she must think he should be able to guess what's wrong.

"Don't gimme that look! What the fuck is wrong? I mean, if ya bought the damned books, and ya've obviously been gettin' tips from 'em, why the hell can't I see 'em?"

She looked away, pouting.

"Look, woman," he growled. "I wanna get laid, not have a fuckin' argument. Now spit it out already!"

She glared at him and frowned stubbornly. Not what he was looking for, but much better than bashful shame.

"I don't know why _I_ have to tell you anything about this. It's not like _you_ do."

This kept going down the ridiculous guess-the-problem road.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Admit it!" She got up, eyes burning. "The only thing you like is that I'm always willing to have sex, because in everything else I'm a stupid inexperienced chick who has no idea how to satisfy you!"

O-kay. Creed took a step back at the unexpected charge.

"Don't you dare say I'm exagerating, Victor. You know that's exactly what you think so be a man and say it to my face!"

"You are demented," he growled.

"Oh, so I am _not_ inexperienced? I satisfy you _completely_ , hun? You don't ever feel like you'd rather be fucking a well-rounded whore, is that it?"

"Damnit, woman, ya was a freakin' virgin half a year ago, I don't expect ya ta be a knows-it-all in such a short period! And yeah, a whore knows what she's doin' and she sure as hell knows how ta add spice an' variety, which ya obviously don't. I mean, there's a reason virgin chicks ain't my thing. They are a hell of a nice, tight fuck, but it's touch an' go with 'em. It gets boring fast when they don't know what t'do an' need pointers all the freakin' time."

The woman paled.

"So I _am_ boring."

"What? I didn't say that!"

"You've just said virgins are boring!"

"Yeah, but I wasn't talkin' 'bout _you_."

And definitely not now, anymore. Though the first time he'd fucked her had been a prime example of why virgins should be kicked out the moment you've popped their cherry.

The woman took a deep angry breath.

"We spent over a month in that supid cabin, and you had to always tell me what to do, and…"

"That was different!" He interrupted. "Look, ya're blowin' all this outta proportion! Yeah, ya ain't skilled, _I know_. But you are a fast learner and I'm sure ya'll be a great lay soon enough."

The woman snorted.

"So the idea is for you to put up with a bad lay while you're waiting."

"Ya ain't a bad lay, damnit! Ya just ain't at the level o' the women I like t'bang! That's all!"

She stood in silence, her glare morphing into a firm 'I knew it all along'. You aren't at the level of the women I like to bang. It occurred to him that might not have been the smartest thing to say in this particular context. He breathed out. Reassuring. The woman needed reassuring. Here was another thing that made experienced women a much better choice. Those don't ever need no reassurance.

"I should start unpacking," she said with stiff smoothness.

At least she was past yelling. He had only wanted to fuck the woman! Honestly, why did he have to put up with drama when he just wanted a nice, relaxing fuck?

Creed grabbed her by an arm and pushed her back onto the bed.

"Let's get somethin' straight."

Only he didn't really know how to set it straight. He needed to set her apart from all the other women, he'd realised that much, but say what? He held her pissed gaze trying to… That was it!

"Look, ya ain't very skilled. _Yet_. That's a given. And I ain't about ta stop fuckin' whoever I feels like no matter how skilled ya ever become. That's another given and ya better never even dream o' givin' me no shit 'bout it."

"I know," she grumbled.

"Good. Now, I don't give a shit that ya ain't as skilled as some o' the women I associate with fer two reasons: first, ya're gonna be gettin' more skilled as time goes on. Second, ya're _mine_. The other women are just… random women. I fuck 'em an' move on. They ain't mine, the way _you_ are, get it? If the other women drop dead, I don't give a damn. There'll be someone else t'take their shoes. Not you. _You_ are _mine_ ; _you_ ain't goin' _no_ where. That's why I didn't get annoyed, back in Alberta, putting up with yer incomp… uh… lack o' skills. 'Cause ya're _mine_. Is everythin' clear now?"

She seemed a bit softened, though maybe not fully. He'd let it sink in.

"Keepin' all this in mind, can we now move on t'somethin' a bit more satisfyin'?"

Isabel shrugged and Creed growled, picking up the book.

"Yer problem here is skills, right?" He flipped the pages over. "Then I say we get these books of yers ta good use an' make sure 'em skills improve as fast as possible."

Variation, variation, variation…

"Since, apparently, ya've been followin' the order o' the positions in this book, it means today's lesson is the… uh… I'm gonna go out on a limb an' say this is Portuguese for corckscrew." He turned the book around so she could take a look. "See? Two in one. A new position and a new word."

Isabel didn't repeat the English word so he doubted she was going to recall it later, but she was reading the description. Creed started stripping. He had never imagined her to be ashamed of her failings, even because she'd been working hard to overcome them, especially in the last month or so. But even before that, all the way to when he had her in the cabin in the woods, she had always been enthusiastic and adventurous, confident in her experimentations even when she needed pointers.

"Done?" He took the book and threw it onto the floor. "Get rid o 'yer clothes, then."

She still didn't look her usual self so he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him.

"Quit bein' an ass, Nesi. I much prefer it when ya're a devilish self-confident tease."

The woman breathed in softly and held her breath. What now, he growled.

"Devilish," she asked softly, suspiciously.

"Yeah, like a devil."

She had better not get religious about it.

"And you like dat I'm devil," she asked in English.

There! All she needed was some motivation and she willingly went back to English. It was all a matter of not forcing her when she got stubborn and then waiting for a sweeter disposition.

"Especially when ya're an English speakin' devil."

She chuckled, unanmused, and got up as she slipped the top over her head.

"Den maybe you like dis."

She walked over to her suitcase and opened it, pulled out two other books. The cover of the first one said oral sex, which explained a lot. She handed the second one to him. Sex in pregnancy.

"Because I'm almost in month five, I think is better dat I… _we_ start read dat."

Creed flipped through it. It mentioned pros and cons for each suggested position and each unadvised one too. It occurred to him he had never fucked a pregnant woman before. Well, very pregnant. As he looked at some of the pictures, it dawned on him things were going to get real limited, real soon. He flipped back to the fourth month. It was vague enough to allow for almost anything. Better make the best of it while he could.

* * *

How could such a fast rhythm be so soothing? Keeping his eyes closed, it was as if the world didn't exist beyond his child's beating heart and his woman's lazy playing with his hair, her scent enveloping him in a protective bubble of ease and pleasure. Creed could have stayed like that forever. The hot afternoon filled with the crackling song of the cicadas and a warm breeze stirring the white curtains over the bedroom window.

"Are you awake?"

The woman's whisper nearly rose above the cicadas.

"Sh," he answered back. He hadn't grown tired of listening to his daughter just yet.

"Sometimes I'm afraid."

He lifted his head up immediately.

"What're ya afraid of?"

"That I end up like my mother."

Her mother? The only thing she'd mentioned about her was that she had tried to curb Isabel's death-wish and so they'd ended up fighting a lot.

"How did she end up?"

"It's more like how _we_ ended up. By the time I was thirteen, we could barely have a conversation that didn't end up in an argument. She was much too strict and never tried to understand my point of view, but I wasn't exactly easy on her. I really regret how difficult I was for her, you know, and I do not want to be like that with my daughter, always fighting."

Ok. He wasn't exactly sure what the woman expected him to say to that.

"I want my relationship with my daughter to be like the one I had with my grandma Lilia. She listened to me and she tried to understand me. She criticised me too, and she upbraided me a lot of times, but it was so different. I could talk to my grandma about anything."

There was a long silence and Creed ended up just saying 'ok', hoping that had been the end of it, before going back to his position.

"And you? Are you going to teach her to hunt?"

"Damn right I am!" He rested his head on her belly again, but facing her this time. "An' ta fight, too."

Isabel smiled softly but then frowned.

"We must be careful. Expectations are dangerous."

"What d'ya mean?"

"One of the problems I had with my mother was her expectations. She had very specific expectations for me: to be a good student, to go to university, to get a good career… The problem was that I was never a good student. My mother was a teacher and she was always, always, _always_ going on about homework and studying and school marks and… God! It was a nightmare. In a scale of 1 to 5, she wanted me to have mostly 4s and 5s. I was happy with having 3s and an occasional 4 so I never bothered to go beyond it."

Creed frowned at the news.

"My baby girl has better not take after _you_."

Isabel laughed.

"Yeah. So… are there any chances _you_ were a good student? Because if you were like me, we're screwed."

He didn't answer immediately. The question didn't seem the least staged but it still felt like she was trying to pry into his past.

"Anyway, I'm going to guess you have 'good student genes'." She smirked, as if she had never really expected him to answer. "You have that look when I see you reading papers and stuff to prepare a job. Or when you want to read poetry and those politics books, or studying stuff about pregnancy and spewing every tip and rule without a hesitation. Prime student material! And then you have that 'knowledge doesn't take up space' vibe which is _not_ me at all. So, yeah, you have 'good student genes'. I'll light up a candle to Our Lady of Fatima to see if our baby gets them too."

Prime student material? Ha! The woman was nuts.

"Ya used t' go t' the library back in Wausau. Wasn't that studyin'?"

"Of course not! Well, yes, but… it's not something that comes naturally, or easily. I had a good motivation to keep myself focused in de library: I needed to learn stuff about how this world of mutants worked. But I'll let you in on a secret: it was _horrible_. Reading all those texts in English gave me headaches! When I started, I was pretty much checking every other word in the dictionary."

"Was that why ya was readin' Spanish stuff, too?"

"Yeah. So much easier! Anyway, I only kept on doing that for so long because I'm stubborn, or I would have sent it all to hell. In fact, I set an hour to go in and another to go out because, otherwise, I'd have found an excuse to end the studying early and go to the piano. Especially when you weren't around."

Creed frowned as the idea occurred to him

"Does that count as expectations? Wanting her to be a good student, I mean."

And did it really matter?

"Not necessarily. If she likes studying naturally, it'll be easier for her in general. Anyway, I am not going to demand high marks. For as long as she gets positive marks, it'll be fine by me. It's like my grandma used to say: you are born to be what you're born to be, and that's it. I just want her to be happy and explore her abilities and… and be happy. If she turns out to be a bookworm… I'll never understand the appeal of books, but if that makes her happy, great. And if she ends up as a tomboy who only wants fighting and cars, that's fine too."

A bookworm? He was not going to have his baby girl be a _bookworm_!

"I won't even say anything if she turns out as a fashionite, even if that would break my heart. She'll be what she's destined to be. And I really think you should have that in consideration, too. It's one thing to make sure she tries out all sorts of different things, from hunting to surfing and to… I don't know, home-made jewelery. It will help her discover who she was born to be. But the moment we try to force her to be what _we_ want her to be is the moment we will lose our daughter."

Creed frowned at the idea. It made sense. If she turned out as stubborn as her mother, for example, the more you pressed her one way, the more she'd go in the opposite direction. He couldn't have that.

Isabel sighed deeply.

"I'm getting hungry. What time is it?"

"Nearly five," he grumbled.

He helped her up then put on a pair of boxers. It was hot enough that he decided to stay that way rather than putting on the jeans. Isabel went to her bag and got a breezy summer dress out.

"I'll make myself a sandwich and I'll unpack after eating. Shall I fix you up something too?"

"Yeah, sure."

As she hummed a tune down the corridor, Creed got his own suitcase to get his tablet. He hadn't checked his email all day long and Clone Boy should report a completed mission any time. Hmm… Not yet. Well, he still had a few hours to finish it.

He went to his two business emails and came across three dozen jobs waiting for an application. These job requests had a window of 48 hours to receive hitmen applications and the OP would then choose the most qualified candidate. Creed had soon realised that newcomers to both job board sites he'd signed up with had to nearly work for free taking shitty jobs until they got enough reputation to be able to apply for bigger, serious ones. The type of job where OPs cared more about a good result than saving money.

First of all, he erased the jobs happening outside Europe and then the ones taking longer than five days. That left him with four jobs on one email, and five on the other. Let's see… five in London, two in Rome, one in Madrid and one in Berlin. Forget the others. He would apply for the five London ones and take as many birds with one stone as he could. The shitty jobs he was being forced into could easily be done in one or two hours, max, and the more hits he took on, the faster he'd reach the higher tier of the site.

"Bacon, chorizo and cheese sandwich," Isabel grinned from the doorway. "It's waiting for you in the kitchen. I don't want bread crumbs spread everywhere."

 _Thank you for your application. The OP will choose the most qualified candidate in 13 hours._

"I'm just finishin' this," Creed said as he applied to the next ones.

He'd get the answers to the five applications in between seven and twenty-five hours from now. Isabel remained leaning on the door frame. Once he was done with it and switched off the tablet, she asked when he was leaving.

"Either tomorrow or after tomorrow," he got up. "But I won't be longer than four to five days."

Isabel trailed him to the kitchen thoughtfully, and as they both sat down at the table to eat their sandwiches, she breathed out resolutely.

"I'm causing you professional problems," she said in English.

Creed frowned at her.

"I'm not stupid, Victor! You pass your time wid me, and when you leave to work is two or four days. If you only choose short jobs because of me… da causes you problems, right?"

"It's my choice," he told her. "I don't wanna leave ya alone fer too long."

"Yes, I know, and I thank you. But dat made sense in de beginning, when I was afraid to be alone, and den when we didn't know if de baby was going to die. Now, is different. I'm not afraid anymore, I have no nightmares, and we know de baby is fine. You can accept longer jobs."

"It's _my_ choice, woman, not yours."

"I know is your choice, Victor. But I want dat you know I'm well again. You never worried about leave me alone in Wausau for weeks. Is de same now. If you want accept a longer job, I don't want dat you think I _need_ dat you are always wid me."

Creed didn't tell her there was no comparison. She was his woman, now, not to mention she was carrying his child. It made no nevermind whether she needed him around; _he_ needed to be around both of them as much as possible. He needed to make sure both were perfectly safe all the time.

"Good t'know ya think yer back t'yer old self," he grumbled. "I'm still not stayin' away fer longer than four t'five days."

Isabel nodded and went back to her sandwich.

"I don't feel like goin' nowehere today," he told her. "But I'll take ya shoppin' tomorrow so ya won't need ta leave the house while I'm away."

He noticed she had held her breath for a second then swallowed and breathed out stiffly. She didn't say anything, though. Creed could barely believe the woman wasn't going to fight him over the topic. He really should have taken her out of Lisbon sooner. However, once the sandwich was over, she leaned on the table and gazed stubbornly at him.

"Victor, love, I know you want dat I am safe. I know dat you know how to keep me safe better dan anyone, and I obey everything you say when the problem is safety. Is your specialty: fighting, killing and keeping safe."

"Good," he said, though he knew she was going to aggravate him next. "That means ya know it's safer fer you ta stay in the house when I ain't around."

"My specialty is making people think we are a normal couple. Is creating a net of contacts so _we_ know what is happening in de city and wid de neighbours. Is guarantee dat every neighbour knows dat Victor Creed-Kredall is a Spanish guy dat travels a lot because of his job as a management consultant. Dat is my job. And I can't do dat if I'm locked in de house everytime you leave."

Creed growled.

"Ya're safer locked in the house."

She gazed steadily at him. Stubbornly, rather than angrily.

"I understand you want keep me safe, but lock me in de house is dangerous to our cover story. Can I suggest dat I phone every time I leave de house and den when I return? So you always know where I am."

It annoyed him that she wasn't wrong. The cover story was what would keep their identities safe if anyone thought of looking into them.

"I send you a message," she continued. "I say how long I think I'm going to be outside and den I send anoder message when I return. You think dat is balance enough to keep me safe?"

"One outing every two days or more," he grunted. "And never longer than one hour."

"Every day, Victor. I need fresh bread."

"Ya can bake it yerself," he growled. "Ain't ya the best cook ever under the sun?"

The woman sat back on the chair.

"For now, yes, I can. But make _good_ bread means effort. You have to… what's de word in English? Beat de dough? You have to use streng and I am not doing dat after month six."

Creed had no idea how hard kneading dough could get, but he could smell she wasn't lying. She was probably thinking about going for the hardest, least practical recipe. He could get her a bread-making machine. Every now and then there was a flurry of online ads for that type of stuff. However, he got the impression she'd refuse to use the machine because it was not the way to make proper tasty bread. Damn cooking manias.

"Fine. Ya can leave the house once a day."

"Go to de market or de supermarket can be more dan one hour," she said. "But buy bread and milk is half an hour or less. I send you a message wid de time I think I'm going to need when I leave."

She always took ages doing her weekly shopping!

"Ya can only leave in the morning," he growled.

"Oh, yes! In summer, I only stay outside during de cool morning hours. But when gets cold, I prefer leave late in de morning or early in de afternoon. Is more warm."

Creed hated that he couldn't lock her in. He hated it! Damn the cover story.

"Ya'll text me before ya leave and when ya get back," she nodded, saying she promised to do so. "And ya text me every half an hour when ya stay outside fer longer."

The woman breathed out.

"Every hour," she grunted. "Is a deal."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	36. Alentejo: Phones and Lessons

Here is the chapter that should have been uploaded yesterday. Enjoy!

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **36\. Alentejo: Phones and Lessons**

Isabel had just opened the door of the car when the phone rang. Again.

She had been proud of herself, the way she'd made Victor realise he couldn't keep her locked in the house. She had even felt victorious while the man had been away on that first job since their move to Alentejo. She had texted him every time she left and returned, as promised, and had sent him random texts while she was out. She had said one hour, but she had ended up texting with intervals ranging from 10 to 90 minutes. Her idea was to get him off balance on when exactly she'd contact and, slowly, push the average to long uncontacted periods. Not once had he called her when she was out, on that first job. He'd been perfectly satisfied with her texted reports, laconic though they might have been. Three days into his second job, though, he'd been plaguing her every time she left the house with crabby calls.

"Yes?" She answered with a forced smile.

Isabel had left the house two hours ago and he had called her four times already. She had hooked up with a group that created local craft to sell at monthly craft markets and nearby fairs. It was organised by two unemployed sisters who had contacted local homes for the elderly so the old women could put their skills to good use and get some pocket money to supplement their pensions. They got some money from selling the old women's work, but they also kept their garage door open to anyone who came in requesting custom made clothes or in need of mending old clothes. Isabel had offered to pay a fee in return for sewing lessons and Victor was well aware that she now met up with them almost daily, sticking around their garage-turned-shop for at least one hour. Had that stopped him from harrassing her?

"What're ya doin'?"

It was always that same maddening question. Three days of constant harrassing! Isabel nearly felt ashamed around Marta and Zulmira, the way the phone kept ringing. She was that close to start switching it off.

"I'm opening the door," she said.

He wanted detailed reports did he? Let's see if he liked having his wish fulfilled.

"What door?"

"The car door."

"Ah," and the relief in his tone aggravated her. "Ya're finally goin' back t'the house. It's about time!"

"No, no, I'm going to sit down."

She grimaced at the stupid retort. It was the first thing that had popped in her head but it didn't make much sense.

"Huh? Sit down where?"

"In the car, obviously. I can't really drive the car if I don't sit down first, can I?"

There was a slight silence and Isabel held back a chuckle. She might be talking a bit nonsensically, but for as long as it annoyed the man…

"But ya're goin' back t' the house?"

"Obviously! I have to spend the night somewhere."

Another silence.

"Isn't it near lunch time in Portugal? Why are ya talkin' 'bout spendin'… You are goin' back t'the house _now_ , ain't ya?"

Isabel smiled devilishly.

"No, not now. Later."

"Ya've already been outta the house fer over two hours and it's nearly lunch time. What d'ya mean ya ain't goin' back just yet?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's a nice day. I'm thinking about going for a drive."

She could hear him snarling on the other side and she almost giggled at the sound.

" _You_ are gettin' inside the car an' goin' straight back t' the house, ya hear me?"

Straight? Isabel knew that word. It meant directly but it could also mean in a line. Let's pretend she only knew one meaning…

"Oh, no, my love. I can't go _straight_. I would have to drive through a bunch of houses."

"Are ya fuckin' playin' games with me, woman?!"

She almost said yes. This was fun, provoking him over the distance. If she pestered him every time he phoned, maybe he'd learn his lesson and give it a break.

"I wouldn't call it games," she said, leaning on the open door. "Games are fun. Are you having fun?"

"I'm sure as hell gonna have fun teachin' ya a lesson, ya fuckin' asshole!"

She might be pushing the man a bit too far. But then she got inspired. Suicidally inspired.

"Promise?" She said, and she could almost imagine him frowning in surprise at the unexpected comeback. "I'll be waiting, then."

She hung up before he could react and got in the car, throwing the phone onto the other seat. Victor was supposed to return late in the following day, which meant she had over twenty-four hours to keep on provoking the man.

Driving back to the house, Victor called. Obviously, she didn't answer. If he wasn't about to go into a berserker rage, he'd remember she'd said she was opening the door of the car and would realise she was driving.

She got back to the house and waited for him to call again while fixing herself lunch. After twenty minutes, though, she frowned. Maybe he had had to go back to work. Bummed at the thought, she decided to poke him a bit more.

 _I'm waiting for the lesson you promised. Don't keep me waiting too long._

Once he read the text, he'd call her. Isabel sat down to have lunch with the phone next to her. After cleaning the kitchen, she sat down on the sofa. Nothing yet. She sighed and lay back. In between the late August heat and a heavy stomach, she ended up falling asleep.

She dreamt of him. Angry and naked, those beautiful eyes fired up and his fangs biting into her shoulder, his claws making her moan as her own nails drew blood from his back. Fucking her with all his strength till she... The ringing snapped her out of it before she could come.

Gasping, frustrated, Isabel looked around. The phone had fallen off and she had to fetch it from under the couch. Victor. Who else?

"Hey…"

"What the fuck were ya doin' that took ya this long t'answer the damn phone?"

Welcome to reality. And to think Isabel had been ready to be sweet and loving in the aftermath of that dream.

"I was getting laid," she said and even her baseline ears could hear the man's stunned breathing. "And it was very rude of you to interrupt before I could come."

He continued in shocked silence. It was probably the most shocked silence of all his very long life, Isabel smirked. He must be trying to make sense of what she'd said and failing at every turn.

"Well, if you're not going to say anything, I'm going to finish what you interrupted. Bye."

It took the man almost a minute to call back, but he did so with a roaring shout. It sent shivers down her spine.

"WHAT THE FUCK D'YA THINK YA'RE DOIN', WOMAN!"

Isabel held back laughter, even as a little voice warned her she was taking the joke too far. Oh, very well. She wouldn't push him much longer, then.

"Do you mean right now? I'm talking to you. But if you meant a minute ago, you were fucking me hard in one of my best wet dreams ever. And if you mean what I'm going to do next, I'm going to masturbate. Be a darling and don't interrupt this time, ok?"

And she hung up. He was going to call her again, though, wasn't he?

 _I'm switching off the phone for some privacy. Hurry up with my lesson, though. I'm dying for it._

Isabel didn't switch off, though, she simply put it in silence. As expected he called. The phone buzzed in her hands over and over again and she controlled the urge to answer. Let him suffer.

Oh, a text!

 _Im gonna kill you_

Good thing he was too far away to do it right now. Maybe she had pushed him a bit too far. She'd text him in English to make up for it.

 _yes fak me til Im ded of plejar_

She wondered wh…

 _text in port I cant undestand a thing_

Isabel pouted. She was pretty sure the spelling wasn't _that_ off. It really killed the mood being asked to translate stuff.

 _I want you to fuck me till I'm dead of pleasure_

The phone buzzed anew and Isabel hesitated before answering.

"What the fuck's wrong with you, woman?" His voice was much calmer though. "Is there a reason fer you to piss me into a fuckin' berserker rage?"

"A restless pussy."

He didn't understand the Portuguese expression and she groaned, annoyed with yet another linguistic barrier that ruined every effect she chose to go for.

"I want you inside me, ok?" She snapped, still in Portuguese. "And I don't give a shit if you're coming back fucking pissed because that's exactly what I'm hungry for."

At least after that wet dream it was. There was a bit of silence and a sobering thought flashed through her mind.

"Oh, no you don't! You better not be thinking about giving me a lesson with 'no sex' because then I'm the one who'll be fucking pissed."

"Huh?"

"It's exactly like that! And just so we are both clear on the subject, saying one is too pissed to have sex is a very good reason to not have sex. In fact, it's a reason no one can attack, and if you come back saying _that_ , I will not be happy but I won't give you any shit about it. But if you come back, all cool headed, and claim 'no sex' is a fucking lesson, then, you listen to me carefully, that is not acceptable and I will give you fucking shit like you've never seen it."

Isabel hung up and sat back. He'd phone again now. She put the volume up and sighed. It occurred to her that, if Victor were to phone her constantly, or text, but do so teasingly rather than just asking 'what you're doing' and telling her to go back to the house as soon as possible; if Victor were to phone her teasingly, she wouldn't mind him doing it every ten minutes. Well, maybe not literally but…

She looked at the phone. Nothing.

Drats. She'd been having fun, now. Maybe she should text him.

 _what are you doing?_

Hehe. Let's see if he liked a taste of his own medicine.

 _get back to the house as soon as possible_

Nothing.

She started typing another text then stopped. No. To keep on texting wouldn't do. Right now, she had the upper hand. Let him marinate.

* * *

It was dark, crickets chirping all around the house, and Isabel was getting antsy. Better yet, she had been getting antsier and antsier with every passing hour. She was horny and frustrated, and Victor hadn't had the decency of either calling or texting.

She had spent the evening putting together all sorts of texts to send the man, from the tame to the outrageous, from the apologetic to the accusing, though mostly dwelling on the provocative. Aggressively so.

He could be on a job, though. Maybe that was the reason for the silence.

Lying in bed, no lights on except for the screen of the phone, Isabel groaned. What to do? As the clock chimed ten, though, she decided she'd have enough.

 _Can you talk?_

If he were on a plane he wouldn't be able to. Drats. But why would he be on a plane? He wasn't supposed to get back before next day's late afternoon.

She groaned. There was no way she was going to get any sleep! And it was all his fault. If he hadn't been harrassing her with phone calls for three days, she wouldn't have gotten into the mood of pestering him. She hoped he was antsy, too.

Though he probably wouldn't be.

It annoyed her. He should be. If she was lying in bed, suffering from an antsy pussy; the least the man could do was suffer from an antsy dick.

Isabel glared at the phone. She could get him antsy. Hell if she couldn't! She'd get him so horny, he'd hire a jet to get back faster.

 _nights are too boring. I'm going to buy some sex toys to replace you when you go away._

That should really tick him.

The moment she sent the text, though, she regretted it. She was being plain mean.

 _who am I kidding? Of course they won't._

There, that should placate him.

 _when I close my eyes I can almost imagine your claws grazing my skin_

 _your hand grabbing one breast while you suck the other_

 _I can almost feel your taste as I lick your dick_

 _but is not the same_

 _I can finger myself all night and it will never come close to your touch_

Oh, she would give anything to see his face when he read those.

She dropped the phone and waited fretfully, then got the phone back. It had been five minutes since her last message and he hadn't said anything. She really wanted him to be on a plane. She was sure he wouldn't keep silent after seeing those texts.

But what if he was still on a job and simply didn't have the phone on him to avoid distractions or…? She sighed at the screen.

 _hello_

 _HELLO_

 _See? You don't want to phone me all the time asking me stupid questions. You bring out my nagging side._

 _Have you finished your job?_

 _I take back what I said: I do NOT want you to stay away for more than four days_

 _I hope you're on the plane. If you're keeping silent just to piss me off, I'll be so beyond pissed, I won't want sex with you for a whole month._

She sighed and closed her eyes, telling herself she should sleep. But she wanted him to say something! She wanted to see – or at least hear – his reaction. She recalled the whole conversation then she had an idea and giggled.

She sent him a photo of her breasts and followed with a list of Portuguese words from the everyday common usage to the metaphoric. Then she did the same for her ass and her pussy.

 _I hope you enjoy the dictionay I've sent_

 _If you send me some bodyparts, I'll give you more words._

She really hoped he was on the plane, on his way back. Or driving. That would be even better.

 _Where are you?_

 _I'm in bed._

 _Completely naked for you._

 _I have no intention of staying naked all day long for you, so do try to get here before morning, you hear?_

Isabel opened her eyes when a… she wasn't sure what sound it had been, but she was sure she had heard something. She looked at the phone and realised it was 2 am. She must have dozed...

"What the fuck is wrong with you, you demented asshole?"

Isabel sat up in bed with a gasp, clutching her chest. God!

"Damn it, man!" She breathed hard. "Do you want to give me a heart attack?"

Looking at the dark shape taking up the door frame, Isabel could distinguish nothing but the man's glowing eyes. She loved the sound of his growl, but that was not going to excuse the way he'd burst in there.

"What the fuck did you expect from me? If you pester me all day long with stupid phone calls, it was obvious I was going to follow your lead sooner or later, wasn't it? Besides, getting sex texts is far better than that stupid 'what you're doing' so I don't know why you're complaining."

He lunged at her, snarling and growling. Isabel welcomed him with demanding arms and kissed him feverishly, her fingers grabbing onto his hair.

"Get off those fucking clothes, damn you!" She grunted the moment the kiss broke.

But he only got rid of his jeans, not his shirt, and Isabel wrapped her legs around his waist, cursing him Portuguese.

"You provoke and provoke," she growled. "Thought you weren't going to get some, huh?"

He thrusted hard into her and Isabel's nails scrapped over the shirt. She was too short to kiss him while he fucked her, so she usually kissed his chest and shoulder. Or bit it. The shirt, though, prevented her from doing her usual. Irked, she bit him on the neck instead. She bit down with all her might, all her frustration, all the pleasure that he's…

Fuck!

Isabel hit her head hard on the bedstand and hissed.

"Fuck," she grumbled in Portuguese, "why the hell did you do that?"

And then she noticed something wet and warm all over her.

"What the…"

She reached for the lamp and switched it on as she finally realised Victor was cursing. It took her a moment to realise she was covered in blood, but it didn't make any sense. She looked at Victor, trying to understand where that blood had come from.

"Why the fuck did you bite my jugular open?" Victor was gawking at her, a hand on his neck and his shirt soaked in blood. "What the fuck did you think you were doing, woman!"

"Jugular?" she echoed without understanding. "What are you talking about? I bite you all the time and you never… you never bled before… well, not like this, anyway."

"You bit my _jugular_ ," he hissed before going into Spanish. "It's a vein in the neck. You can kill someone if you bite their jugular open!"

Isabel sat up and sighed, frustrated. Why was he so flustered? It wasn't as if he could bleed to death.

"Well… next time get rid of your shirt. That way I can bite your shoulder or your chest instead of your neck."

The man snarled at her in silence for a moment then Isabel sighed, frustrated.

"I guess I better start cleaning, then."

Creed grabbed her by an arm as she got up, though.

"If ya think ya gonna tease me the way ya did an' then stop me with a fucking bite, ya got another thing coming, woman."

* * *

Isabel looked at the blood soaked mattress and groaned.

"How the hell am I going to clean all this blood from the mattress?"

Although, obviously, she wasn't.

"Ya should have thought 'bout it 'fore ya bit me, ya freakin' wanna-be vampire."

"Remember to keep your shirt on every time you want a repeat. But _not_ on the bed!"

Victor finished getting dressed, after his morning shower, as Isabel collected the sheets. She'd have to soak them in cold water and salt. Maybe resort to oxygenated water.

"Leave it be," Victor said. "I'll get ya a new mattress; there's no need fer ya ta exert yerself over that. Get breakfast ready while I get my bags."

Grumbling, she went to the kitchen. New mattress or not, there was still the matter of the sheets. She'd fill the bathtub with cold water to take care of them, she decided. Isabel was whisking the eggs when Victor stopped by, the bag in his hand, and dropped a CD on the table.

"What's that?"

He was already on his way out and stopped with a hesitation.

"A music CD. Ain't it obvious?"

Yes, she could see it was a music CD, but…

"Why are you giving me a music CD?"

" Wh…? Well… 'cause ya're always playin' that stupid guitar and… ya're always playin' the same thing. Figured ya needed some inspiration ta innovate a bit."

Isabel became aware she was staring at the man with a dumbfounded expression when he frowned gruffly.

"Well, ya showed me how ya can play stuff by ear. Ya said ya's an expert transposin' music from whatever t' the piano an' the guitar…"

Victor turned away suddenly, leaving the sentence half-way. She hadn't meant to hurt his feelings, she just… couldn't figure out why he had brought her something when she'd provoked him so shamelessly. Had he bought it for her before the phone war? Or had he actually liked it enough to buy her something?

She picked up the CD. Best of Tracy Chapman. The name meant nothing to her, but perhaps she'd recognise the songs. She took the CD to the living room, where an old hi-fi system was anchored, and started playing it. Nice voice. Guitar. That's why he'd chosen this album. She opened the guitar case, which she kept next to the hi-fi system, and laid it on the couch, then she went to the bedroom with the CD case in her hand.

Victor's bag was open but not yet empty. He was by the window with the tablet. Probably checking his emails.

"When's yer next doctor appointment?" He asked gruffly, not turning to face her. "I got another job and I wanna make sure it won't overlap."

"Friday."

He grumbled under his breath.

"Victor, what order should I follow?"

He looked back with a frown.

"A CD has too many songs," she explained. That one in particular had eighteen. "It'll take a long time to learn them all. I mean, it's easy to transpose, but to actually learn a song, for _real_ , I mean, to always remember it, I have to practise for at least two or three weeks. It's easier if I only focus on one song at a time. It's not like I'm a genius."

Victor shrugged.

"Start wi' the one ya prefer, how should I know."

"I don't want start wid my favourite," she switched to English. "I want start wid _your_ favourite. If I'm going to learn a song, is better be something you like hear and not something dat makes you run away from de house."

He shrugged again and looked back at the tablet.

Isabel placed the CD on a clean spot of the mattress and walked softly up to him, groped his ass.

"Stop it," he growled lightly.

He didn't push her away, though, so Isabel let her hand slide over to his belt to start undoing it.

"Ya're a fuckin' lil' devil, ya know that?"

Isabel smiled as he switched off the tablet.

"Little? You call me _little_ devil?" He grabbed her wrist and held it behind her back, pulling her to him. "I have to work more serious. I want be a big devil."

She got up on her toes so he could kiss her more easily. It was so annoying having such a big height difference.

"Just pick one damn song and I'll let ya know if I don't like it." He said, his frown gone. "Is breakfast ready yet, ya big temptin' devil? I gotta go get a new mattress, remember?"

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	37. Alentejo: M-Day

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **37\. Alentejo: M-Day**

* * *

 _I used the date and time referred on X-Men #191, where Sabretooth tells the X-Men he was in Peru on a job on Nov 2 at 3pm when there was a white flash and his colleague lost his powers. Unfortunately, different titles gave different dates and time stamps to the event. One would think such an important Marvel event would have had someone telling the writers when it happened (or telling them not to give any time stamp at all) to prevent such a different range of dates, but no. Who cares about continuity, right?_

* * *

Creed couldn't wait to climb out of these moronic jobs. He was acing a jilted lover's ex, for crying out loud. For eight hundred dollars. He was used to charging fifteen to twenty grand to ace small time assholes. This barely covered his expenses, travelling between Portugal and London, sometimes having to hop over to Germany, the Netherlands or to Belgium. If he didn't coordinate two and three jobs in one sitting... At least he was on the verge of moving on to the next tier on both job board websites he used.

In two months and a half, Creed had taken on over fifteen hits from one job board and over ten from the other. He had a different identity for each, but each one boasted a perfect score. Most hitmen on these sites took anywhere from a year to forever to move up from the first tier; Creed's aliases were being hailed as the best new recruits ever, which was great. It made OPs prefer his applications. Once he moved on to the second tier, he could get up to five grand per job, but he still wouldn't be able to charge his own fees. That was reserved for hitmen on the fifth tier. That's when the jobs got interesting.

Sitting in a rental car, Creed saw his mark return home. Creed was supposed to cut his dick and stuff it up his ass before killing the asshole and snapping a few photos. Eight hundred bucks was not worth the hassle.

He made himself comfortable to wait till it got dark and the streets got empty. He got his phone out: 7.49. He was looking at a wait of two to three hours.

Once he aced this asshole, he'd move to the second tier on one of the sites. The other one would take a bit longer. They were on the first days of November and Isabel was seven months pregnant. Thirty-one weeks, to be exact. He had planned to quit taking jobs once she reached 35 weeks. He'd stick around for that last month, just in case the baby decided to come out early. He'd take the chance to set up her bedroom.

Isabel had started looking at some furniture, since they'd have to remain in Portugal for some time after the birth, before returning to Canada, and he'd told her to pick either white or blue, not pink. He wasn't having a little prissy princess for a daughter. Hell, no! Isabel wanted the crib to stay in their bedroom at first, but he had a better idea. He'd buy two cribs, one for each room.

Baby rooms are always painted with sissy colours so he'd decided to leave the walls white. It was a much healthier colour for children. But when Isabel had suggested applying a colourful vynil band to give it a bit of baby spirit, he'd spotted pieces that covered an entire wall. Pieces that were landscapes. He had already ordered one such vynil picture of a northern pine forest. He wanted his baby girl to love the woods, so he figured it was best to start getting her used to it from day one.

And then there were toys. Toys for babies should be chosen based on their ability to develop the infants' abilities: motor coordination, imagination, intelligence… They should stimulate their senses. It sparked his mind with possibilities! Unfortunately, most toys were nothing but plastic garbage with dumbass, sickly-sweet depictions of everything, from planes to animals. He wanted something more natural, more wholesome, true to life. Wooden toys. That's what she'd have. He'd already started researching brands that sold them. She'd have nothing but the best wooden toys.

Well, that and Lego. On his first day in London, he'd walked by a Lego shop. He'd been on his way to have lunch, but they had a scene set out on the window of a pine forest with loggers and he'd gone in immediately. It was a pity that scene's pieces were too little for children younger than three, but he'd bought two boxes of large pieces filled with animals. That way, his Victoria could start learning about the best animals to hunt while developing both motor skills and her imagination. Then, as he left the shop and looked at the loggers one more time, he'd hesitated. What was three years? He'd bought it too and then had sent the whole thing by mail to Portugal.

Four weeks would be more than enough to set his girl's bedroom till it was perfect. She'd have the best environment to stimulate her in all the best ways possible. He'd make sure of it. Both before and after she was born. He was not planning to go back to work before his lil' Victoria was two months old, in the very least. He'd have time to read her bedtime stories. He had read somewhere it's important that parents read to their kids from a young age. It helps develop their little brains.

Unfortunately, taking a break from accepting jobs meant his ellegibility to move to the second tier would suffer, which meant he had to pile up jobs before his baby girl even dreamt of coming out.

He looked at the phone again. 7.51. This was going to take forever! Up on the guy's house, the living room had the light on. Creed could see vague changes in the colour of the light, which meant the asshole was watching TV. He had better not take too long to go to bed.

Creating new hitmen aliases from scratch was the worst. You had to put up with so much shit. He wondered if Isabel was ok. She had told him she'd had her first braxton-hicks contraction the day before. It had really made Creed realise that he needed to be around as much as possible. What if she suddenly got real contractions? Well, not now, but in December.

He checked his email to see if there were more hits he could take nearby. He needed seven more hits with a perfect score before Thanksgiving. Seven hits in less than three weeks. It was going to be a stretch. There was nothing nearby, though.

Damn, he was not in the mood for a patient wait. He switched on the radio and slid through each radio station without even listening to what was on, then switched it off. He once more wondered what Isabel might be doing. Getting dinner ready, obviously.

He drummed his fingers on the driving wheel.

He never called her when he was on a job. It distracted him. Sure, he could finish these jobs with his eyes closed, there wasn't the slightest challenge to them, but he didn't want to make sloppy mistakes. There must be no witnesses, no clues left behind pointing at who might have done the did, every requirement of the hit must be dully respected, and, whenever possible, he must try to make it look natural so as to not attract too much attention from the police. Oh, and he couldn't use his claws or fangs. At the rate he was dropping bodies all around Northern Europe, he really had to make sure he used a wide variety of MOs. And that meant keeping his head cool. No distractions.

If Isabel started having those fake contractions often, it could mean she would start dilating sooner than expected, and that could mean an early labour. It made no nevermind that the probability of it happening was low, there was still a possibility.

Cursing under his breath, he called the woman.

"Yes?"

He breathed more easily just from hearing her voice.

"Hey. What're ya doin'?"

"I'm talking on the phone."

Creed had given up on getting pissed over the woman's answers. No matter what he said, she always ended up veering the conversation into sex sooner or later. He might as well go with the flow.

"Ain't that a coincidence! Me too."

"No!" She gasped in fake shock. "Who are you talking to?"

"A horny she-devil." Isabel giggled and Creed glanced over at his mark's living room window. It was still the only light on in the guy's house. "Who are _you_ talkin' to?"

"A sexy demon I've spent the afternoon dreaming of."

"Oh?"

The other window, which opened into the guy's bedroom, got lit. If the asshole went to bed early, perhaps Creed could speed the gig up.

"He took me to an empty beach," she lowered her voice to a secretive whisper, "and ripped my swimming suit into tiny, tiny slices."

He shouldn't be doing this.

"That's a waste o' time if ya ask me."

He should be asking her if she was ok and hanging up.

"He started eating my pussy and you can't imagine how good it felt. I grabbed his head and…" She moaned and Creed made himself more comfortable. "God, I'm getting wet just remembering it!"

It was one thing to sext and have phone sex while he was in his hotel room or waiting for the plane or something, but doing it while waiting to ace someone was asking for trouble.

"I was almost coming when he suddenly stopped because there were people coming to the beach."

What the fuck! The prick was probably going to watch TV till late.

"That sucks. He should have taken ya t'the woods. I sure as hell would have. I'd have ripped yer clothes off so hard, my claws wouldn't even have had time ta slice 'em and ya'd get red swelts where they burst to shreds 'gainst yer skin."

"Oh, love, you and I, we think exactly alike, 'cause that's exactly what _I_ did. That blasted beach was crowded from the waves to the car park, but I ripped your jeans off and rode you fast and hard. Didn't give a shit about who was watching."

A group of young people walked past the car and Creed once more told himself this was bad timing. He glanced at his mark's place. All lights were out. Damn. He needed to get his head straight.

"The sea was flowing in, and the waves were crashing around us, and…"

"What else are ya doin'?"

"Hun? Uh… Thinking about pulling my panties down so I can finger myself while we talk?"

"No, I mean seriously. It's eight. Shouldn't ya be havin' dinner or somethin'?"

"I was watching TV when you called. Is something wrong?"

"No, nuthin's wrong. I'm on a stakeout and will have t'get movin' soon."

He looked up and down the street. The moment it was empty, he'd make his move.

"Why didn't you say you were working?" She snapped angrily on the other side. "I wouldn't have started teasing!"

"Zip it, Nesi. If I let ya start, it's 'cause I decided it was ok t'do it. Anyways, I'm gonna have an openin' soon so I'm gonna hang up anytime, ok? I just wanted t'know if ya had more braxton-hicks contractions."

"No, it was only that one time yesterday morning."

"OK. Text me if ya have more."

He heard her breathe out in annoyance.

"Yes, love. I'll let you w…"

The world turned suddenly white.

"What the fuck!"

It was a second, though. He got off the car and sniffed the air around him, strained his ears to hear anything out of the ordinary. Down the street, a man was looking about him then gingerly carried on. A few people had opened the windows and were looking left and right. A driver had also braked his car to a standstill and had yet to continue driving. There was a bit of honking elsewhere. Other than that, everything felt normal.

Whatever it had been, it had not been an explosion. Unless it had been a psychic explosion so powerful its energy had affected the physical world. He'd expect for such a thing to create a psychich backlash that would get even non-psychics heads ringing, though.

"Victor? Victor, are you there?"

He took the phone to his ear, still trying to feel something wrong around him.

"Yeah, I'm here. You were sayin'…?"

"Uh… I don't want to get you worried, but I think I'm going to call the health line. I'll call you back."

Huh?

"Wait, what happened?"

"I don't know I just… It's probably nothing, ok?" Had she felt it, too? "Don't get worr..."

"Tell me exactly what ya just felt, Isabel!"

"Ok, take it easy. Everything went white for a moment and I felt kind of… I don't know, weird. I mean… it could be a migraine but… I don't know. It was as if…"

"Was it only the flash of white you saw? Did ya hear anythin'? Did ya get any weird thoughts, like they weren't yer own? Or a kind of headache that feels like it's inside yer head but not physically inside it?"

"Uh… No. It was just the white. What are y…"

"Nesi, listen to me. Right now, are ya feelin' funny or uncomfortable or anythin' like that? Right now."

"No, not anymore. It was just that moment."

"OK, listen. Ya ain't callin' no one. If ya feel sick or faint, then ya call an ambulance straight on an' text me. I'll get on a jet and will be there in no time. But if ya don't feel anythin' wrong, ya don't call no one."

There was a moment of silence.

"Isabel, did ya hear what I said?"

"Yes, but… wh…"

"Trust me. What ya felt, it wasn't just you, ok? I felt it too. I got a feelin' everyone felt it." Though he couldn't imagine what could possible have that wide an effect. "I want ya ta lock every door an' window and keep the lights to a minimum."

He heard her get up to follow his instructions.

"Keep yer adamantium blade next to you, an' that gun I got ya, too. Call me if anythin' weird happens. No matter how small, how insignificant. If it ain't perfectly normal, call me."

"You're making me nervous."

Yeah, obviously.

"Don't be. It's probably nuthin', I'm just makin' sure ya got as much security around ya as possible." He heard her breathe out tersely. "It's either mutant related or somethin' like that."

It suddenly occurred to him that if everyone had felt it…

"Nesi, didn't ya say ya was watchin' TV?"

"I switched it off when the phone rang."

"Turn it on. Check all the news ya can."

He looked around. The street was empty. Near and far, there was still some honking, but the street was empty, and the people who'd come to the windows had locked them up again. It was his opportunity.

"Text me with what they says happened, ok? I gotta go now. I'll call ya as soon as I'm clear."

* * *

The world had gone crazy.

Sitting on the sofa with Isabel next to him, Creed divided his attention between the TV and his tablet. In less than 24 hours, both job board sites were having a spike in hit requests. Now that powerful mutants – and many more not so powerful – had become defenseless baseline humans, a whole lot of people were looking to have sweet coward revenge.

On the news, they went over and over what little was known. Basically, for some unknown reason, a large swab of the mutant population had ceased to be mutant. M-day, they'd called it. Numbers varied from 50% to 99%, but folks were obviously just spewing numbers blindly.

Creed still hadn't been able to get a fix on Clone Boy. He knew he'd taken a contract in late October, but Creed had no idea from who or to do what. What if the Clone had lost his powers? If it became known, it would be great. Creed could set a large prize on his baseline head and have him killed as publicly as possible. He'd be free to make sure his baby girl would never be targeted on account of Sabretooth's existence. He'd simply carry on working under his two new aliases and that was it.

He put a hand over Isabel's large belly and rubbed it gently. The woman leaned onto him and he kissed her forehead, savoured her scent. It sucked. He was applying for as many hits as he could so as to move up to that second tier – and he was not complaining about how timely this M-Day had been. It was going to be a breeze getting those seven hits he needed. But it sucked because that meant leaving the woman and every time he got a whiff of her scent, the last thing he wanted was to get away from her.

"So, when are you leaving again?"

"In two or three days," he said. "But I ain't takin' no more jobs after Thanksgivin'."

Her whole face lit up. Sometimes he wondered how he'd never noticed how pretty she was. She was still not a beauty to drool after, but… in a way, she was prettier than a beauty to drool after. It was the weirdest thing!

"And when's Thanksgiving?"

Seriously?

"It's in two weeks."

She cuddled onto his side and he embraced her.

"Just knowing you'll be here with me until the end of the year, I don't even care if you spend those two weeks completely away."

Yeah, right. Just let him be away for two days and her texts would be saying a completely different story.

Creed started playing with her hair. They sexted more than actually having sex these days. Her belly kept growing, which made a lot of positions awkward, and, anyway, he often felt hornier when he was away rather than when he was in the house. In fact, the woman was hornier than he was, these days. He'd realised it was her pregnant scent. It made him feel lethargic. Content and satisfied, but lethargic. And when he did get a boner, which was still pretty regularly, he was never in the mood for roughing it. That had left him wary at first, but it made sense. The woman's body was working hard to make everyone gentler around her, protecting both mother and unborn child. In any case, it was worth it. He got as much pleasure out of just lazying around with the woman in his arms as he did from coming. Totally different things, obviously, but both were equally satisfying. With the added perk that one of them had a much more lasting effect. He felt happy about his life in a way he'd rarely… hell, in a way he'd _never_ felt before. And he liked it.

"So, Nesi, have ya chosen the cribs yet?"

"Uh-hu. Do you want to come with me tomorrow and see? They're both pine, not painted, just with a honey coloured finish."

Creed looked over his unread emails then set the tablet aside, embracing the woman and putting boths hands over her belly. He loved feeling his baby girl kicking in there.

"I just got an email sayin' the vinyl mural I ordered should be delivered within two workin' days," he told her.

He felt her chuckle, reclined over his chest.

"Are you really going to put the murals on _every_ wall?"

" 'Course not! I ain't putting it on the wall with the window." She shook her head. "It's gonna look great, Nesi. You'll see. She's gonna feel like she's right in the middle o'… uh…. Ya know what, we could have the ceiling with a mural o' the sky. That would really make it look like she was in the middle o' the woods."

"Victor, love, you know she's not going to be aware of any of it, right?"

"That ain't the point," he frowned. "It'll stimulate her senses way more than pics o' silly teddy bears an' toy horsies."

She sighed, not the least convinced, and Creed kissed the top of her head.

"Ya said it yerself, Nesi. The woods are quiet; they got a relaxin' effect. Ya want her t'be in a quiet, relaxing environment. Don't you?"

Her belly contracted slightly and after a bit Victoria did kick hard and fast. A belly-kicking baby had got to end up as an ass-kicking girl, he chuckled to himself.

"So, what d'ya say? Night sky or day sky? If we go wi'the night sky, we could have the moon be the lamp. And I could start teachin' her how t'navigate usin' the stars, too. That's always useful but it takes some time t'get the hang of it. The sooner she starts, the better!"

"Victor, newborns can't really underst…"

"That ain't the point! I've told ya. The…"

"De environment has to stimulate her from day one," she droned out in English. "Yes, I know. I vote in de night sky."

Great! He got the tablet and gave it to her.

"Start lookin' 'em up, will ya? I wanna feel her kick some more."

"But I want the wall with the window to have horses, ok?" She returned to Portuguese. "I saw this one that has little horses running and jumping and it's really cute."

"Sure, no prob. Ya can put whatever ya want on that wall fer as long as it ain't pink princesses."

Isabel laughed and agreed. No pink princesses. Only lots of horses. And an actual rocking horse for when she's older!

"Why not one now?" And at Isabel's frown of incredulity he suggested a big one. "So ya can put her baby bag on it, while she doesn't learn ta sit up, an' then rock it gently."

"Isn't that called a crib?"

"How's about a crib in the shape of a horse? There's tons o'them in the shape o' racin' cars an' space rockets. A horse shaped crib would be much better!"

"Or in the shape of a carriage, connected to the rocking horse in front of it."

"Now ya're talkin'!"

Victoria kicked again, showing her agreement. A carriage shaped crib it would be!

He sometimes felt like he didn't care about moving on to the second tier on that second website. It annoyed him to no end, not being able to feel his baby girl kick every single day. He closed his eyes and inhaled the woman's scent deeply. Nothing in his whole life had ever smelled as appealing.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	38. You can't rely on people with Issues

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **38\. Alentejo: You can't rely on people with issues**

Isabel had first brought the topic up during the Wakandan royal wedding, in the last week of November. She'd been surprised that he wanted to watch it, being shown live on TV, but he'd explained it was just another way of keeping track of who was where.

"There are websites that keep track of 'em superheroes, ya know. I've subscribed the most serious ones an' get updates whenever somethin' big happens. It always pays ta keep track of yer enemies."

"Are you serious?"

"Damn right, I am! They got a bunch o' fans, superheroes, and they'll hunt any piece of information they can get their hands on. 'Sides, whenever ya got teen superheroes, ya're gonna have selfies, tweets and unofficial inside intel leakin' out. Ya have no idea how much rubbish was comin' out into the big wide web from Xavier's lil' school fer mutants 'fore M-Day."

These days, that fountain had mostly dried up. Which wasn't necessarily bad! At least the website owners didn't have to hunt for pearls amidst the mud of teenage nonsense. It made their information less abundant, but more reliable.

"So, basically, they're just like celebrities."

"A lot of 'em _are_ celebrities."

She'd have known that if she read pink magazines. Lover-boys like Fantastic Four's Johnny and the ex-chick-magnet Archangel, or super-scientists like Reed and McCoy.

"Even mutants? I thought everyone wanted them dead."

Creed had snorted.

"Even cold hearted, vicious killers get fan mail in prison, Nesi. Mutants got a slightly larger fan-base, though it's nuthin' when compared t'the Avengers or the Fantastic Four. They run polls on the most popular heroes, too. Captain America is always in the top ten, rarely in the top five, but always there. Anyway, some o' the heroes making t' the first place don't even stick around the top 10 fer half a year, it's all fads."

Though that might change if dear ol' Cap didn't change his stance on the Superhero Registration Act. Good thing they were in Portugal, far away from all the tension. Canada was too close to that mess, right now.

"I bet most news about them concern their love life."

Creed had laughed.

"Ya can bet it is! I don't bother wi'that nonsense. Some o' those heroes, accordin' t' their fans, are constantly breakin' up, makin' up, an' swappin' lovers. I have no idea if it's true, and I don't follow any of it. Not worth it."

Besides, he was sure most of it were lies. The only relationships Creed followed were the well-established ones. It always paid to know your enemies' weak emotional spots.

"How about villains? Do they have fan websites?"

"Only the dumb ones. Or the political ones. Ya have vigilante websites, though. There's this one I follow that maps out all known activity of super-powered criminals."

It had been through that one he'd known Clone Boy had joined the X-Men about a week before Christmas. Not joined as in become an X-Men, more as in being under their custody. It was great news for Creed. But, anyway, he had still been in the dark about the clone on the day of the wedding.

"So you don't have a fan-site?" She pouted. "Oh! I'm sad."

"Ya can't hunt if yer prey knows all about ya," he'd snorted. " 'Sides, wouldn't ya get jealous if I had fans beggin' t' have me fuck 'em?"

"I was just joking," the woman had shrugged, trying to hide some annoyance.

Had he just hit a nerve? She knew he got laid with whoever he felt like whenever he wanted. She knew he wasn't tied down to her. But she was still jealous over the idea, apparently.

"Anyway, have you ever met the bride or the groom?"

Creed had hesitated.

"Do you know what they are like? They were saying on TV this whole wedding came out of the blue."

"Storm is a mutant, the Black Panther ain't." Though he was sure she'd heard that before on TV. "He's a skilled fighter and he's got plenty o' technology and other stuff t'help 'im. She's way more powerful than he is. Uber-powerful telepaths and telecinetics aside, that woman has got t'be one o' the most powerful mutants on Earth."

"No, I meant, do you know them well enough to tell if this really is a love wedding or if it's political."

"Oh. Beats me, and I couldn't care less."

Though it was an interesting point. Could it be political?

"I was saying that because of this Registration Act. I know they're saying mutants aren't targeted, but I don't believe that. I have the feeling that once everyone accepts it, they'll force mutants to register too. They are superpowered, after all."

"No, the only mutants that ain't targeted are the ones associated to the X-Men 'cause they're under government surveillance. Everyone else, if they're out there usin' their powers, they'll be forced t'register."

"Hmm. Do you think she'll leave the X-Men and stop fighting for mutant rights? I mean, _physically_ fighting. She'll obviously keep on politically."

"Good question. She's a fighter, and a good one. Ya can't under-estimate her. Ya know, I don't think I can picture her keepin' t'words an' politics alone. In fact, I can't even picture her keepin' away from the X-Men an' the US fer that long, either. She's a hands-on kinda person."

"So you do know her. Personally, I mean."

Was that jealousy again?

"We've fought before. I've tried t'kill her, an' she never seemed much bothered if usin' her powers t'stop me might kill me. She's been a squad leader fer years an' she leads by example. She doesn't hang back barkin' orders; she gets in the middle of it an' dishes out as hard as she can. She won't keep away from action fer too long."

"No children in the near future, then. His family and the public are going to crucify her if she doesn't give him an heir, though. Monarchies must have heirs."

So maybe she'd bite the bullet.

"She could pop a kid, drop 'im on a nanny's lap an' get back t' the frays," he said thoughtfully.

"If that's the case, I bet she'll get pregnant within the next year. If she doesn't, either she'll start fertility treatments or this really was just a political move and heirs are not a priority."

Could be.

"Do you think their children could be mutants?"

Creed had shrugged. M-Day had happened only three weeks ago. There was still a lot of nonsense drivel going on, but there was at least one pessimistic idea gaining a strong foothold: there would be no new mutants from now on. The ones who'd survived the culling were the last ones.

"I'm sure they'd like her t'sprout a bunch o' powerful mutants. 'Course most kids ain't born mutants, so even if she starts poppin' 'em out in nine months, we'd still have t' wait till they hit puberty t' know."

Isabel had grown fearful all of a sudden.

"Victor, say that again: you said _most_?"

He hadn't followed her meaning and she had shook her head, a bit alarmed.

"I thought _all_ mutants became mutants when they reached puberty, but you said most."

He still couldn't get what was bothering her.

"Yeah. Some kids are born with mutant powers. It ain't common, but it happens. Why?"

"Our daughter… could she be born a mutant?"

Creed had shrugged.

"Could be, yeah. Is that a problem fer you?"

She'd glared at him.

"Don't _you_ think it'll be a problem if the doctors see she's a mutant when she's born?" Shit. He hadn't thought about that. "Especially after this whole situation with mutants losing their powers! Haven't you seen them on TV, talking about the probability of mutants dying out? The possibility that there won't be new generations of mutants? If our daughter is born a mutant, she'll be in the international news, and so will we. And the three of us will be targeted by _everyone_!"

He could massacre everyone in the hospital, to get rid of any witnesses, but that would still get everyone's attention.

Isabel's gaze had become determined.

"It's ok. I can do it."

"Do what?"

"First of all, I come from good stock. My mother's labour – both! – were a breeze. My maternal grandmother and her sisters also had small hours. The babies were out in no time. No problems, no fuss."

"Get t'the point, Isabel."

"My grandmother Lilia was a midwife."

Creed had frowned. What did that have to do with anything?

"I know how dis functions," she had changed to English. "I am going to have my daughter in house."

Woah! Was she saying what he thought she was saying?

"Like hell ya are! Ya need doctors t' have a kid!"

Isabel had scoffed.

"Love, a woman needs a doctor if are complications. De human race lived many milenios before doctors appeared."

"Yeah, an' lots o' women died in childbirth, too. Ya wanna be one o' those?"

"Everything is fine wid me, Victor. I almost don't have any problems, not even… uh… inchated feet."

"Swollen. Ya still got four weeks t'go, an' that's the worst part."

"I told you: runs in my family have babies easy. And we are very near de hospital: if I see something is not right, we can go to de hospital in no time."

"No."

"My grandmoder said to me a lot of stories. Why you think I didn't have sex wid Miguel when he wanted? After hear de stories she told about how easy a baby is made, and how painful he comes out, love, I preferred take risks wid bulls dan _dat_. I was seventeen, but I wasn't stupid."

"Ya're soundin' way more stupid _now_. It ain't safe!"

"I know all de signs; signs dat things are ok, and signs dat things are not ok. I know what I have to feel, I know what I have to see, I kn…"

"Oh, ya know, do ya? Guess ya had lots o' practice, right?"

She had crossed her arms.

"Yes." What? "Three pregnant cats, two dogs and two horses."

"Are you fuckin' shittin' me? Ya wanna compare?! Hell, I've seen mares givin' birth, way back in the day, I've even helped 'em along. That don't make me a qualified midwife, an' it don't make you either!"

"Grandma Lilia said is basically de same. If are no complications, a midwife only supports what is natural to happen."

"And if there are complications?"

"De hospital is next to us, Victor! If I feel a problem, you take me. Is no big deal!"

"No!"

"Victor, you know all about killing and nothing about give birth. But I know. I know how my grandma washed her hands and her mouth wid de more strong alcohol she could, how she put her hand inside to feel when de moder was open enough, I know what you are supposed to feel and not feel. I know why and when she told a moder to get up or sit down, I know what to do if de moder poops when de baby is coming out, I know how long a baby can be inside after de waters break and not have problems, I even know how she put her hand inside to help a baby dat was in a bad position. She always said a hand feels how much streng you can make and de instruments of doctors don't have dat sensibility so dey can hurt de head of de baby. You have to trust me wid dis, Victor, because _I know_."

Creed had been aware he was looking at her in shock as she said all that.

"Ya're goin' t' hospital an' that's final."

"If de baby is not in a good position, yes, obviously! I can't be de midwife of myself. But dat is what I mean: I know if is safe to have her in de house and I will know if I need to go to de hospital."

"I said _no_. Got it?"

The woman had shrugged and turned to the TV, and he'd insisted that she was having his child in hospital, safely.

"Yes," she'd grumbled in Portuguese. "I heard you the first time."

Creed had turned his attention back to the TV, too. He had decided on that day that, the moment he noticed she was in labour, he'd wrestle her into the jeep and take her to hospital. Let her kick and scream all she wanted; he was not taking risks.

So why was he looking on, sitting on their bed, as Isabel walked around their bedroom, wearing nothing but a belt-less bathrobe as he kept trying to get the heater to go beyond its maximum? It was December 27 and Alentejo was very cold in winter. The type of humid cold that seeps into your bones. He did not want Isabel to feel cold, going about nearly naked.

She seemed perfectly calm and in control. She even smiled at him in between contractions. Her scent had never been as powerful as it was right now, and if Creed had stopped to think about it, he might have realised he was ready to obey the woman's every command without a word, without even a thought.

"Not fully dilated yet," she'd said an hour ago. "Damn, it's hot in here!"

Her contractions were much more intense now, a lot closer together too. She had her robe open and he could actually see them. Isabel had stopped smiling a while ago and now just breathed through the pain. The only thing he could think of was how much longer it would take. She had told him it was starting hours ago, shouldn't it be over by now?

Isabel stopped by the two chairs waiting side by side in the middle of the room. She was supposed to sit on them and let gravity pull the baby down while he caught it, she explained. She clenched her teeth and grimaced, holding her breath.

"Ya gotta breathe," he said.

The woman glared at him with an exasperated gasp.

"Shut up and let me work, Victor. I _know_ when I have to breathe. Shut up."

And he did. For what felt like an eternity, he kept his mouth shut.

She'd sat on the chairs for a moment and shoved her fingers inside her, then said she was now fully dilated. The baby was spot on in place, ready to slide out and… fully dilated. All she needed now was for the waters to break.

"Great," Creed had thought. "They were almost there. Almost done."

He didn't even remember that broken waters and full dilation only really meant an hour or more of pushing. The books and websites he'd read over the months couldn't have been further from his mind.

By now, Isabel was walking back and forth, leaning onto the wall, grimacing and whimpering every now and then.

"It's takin' too long," he grumbled. "Ya sh…"

"It can take a full day, Victor!" She blurted in tired exasperation. "This isn't like sprinting her out, ok? It's a marathon. For as long as the waters don't break, I… uh…"

They broke. He saw them flowing down her legs and the smell! It was sweet-like and it made his stomach jump. His whole body shuddered and…

"Uh… ok, ok… God…"

She let go of the wall and started wobbling towards the chairs, but he got off the bed and grabbed her, helped her to sit.

"Take the robe away," she panted, and he obeyed promptly.

"Virgin Mary, Holy mother," she mumbled, making the sign of the cross over her belly. "Give me strength in my time of need and grant me a short hour."

"It's ok," he mumbled, squatting in front of her. The scents in the hot room were so strong he felt intoxicated. His head was swimming and he had trouble focusing his eyes. "It's ok. Ya're almost done."

She laughed then whimpered.

"Oh, love of my life! The bad part is just starting, love. Just st… uh…"

She got both hands on his shoulder and grabbed hard.

"Push," he said, almost instinctively.

"Shut up," she grunted. "I push when I feel I have to, dumbass. Shut up and let me work."

Damn, she had strong fingers.

This time, it really did take ages. He didn't know how long. She shoved her fingers into his shoulders at a weird rhythm, panting and whimpering. Letting out random snippets from prayers every now and then. Then the head showed up.

"I can see it," he yelled. "She's comin' out!"

His fingers were almost tingling as the bloodied little thing slid painfully out. The smell was so strong he couldn't even distinguish anything. He felt dizzy and sweaty – should have taken his shirt off – his own flesh and blood resting against his hands so delicately so tenderly so…

"Is it over?" Isabel whimpered over him. "Victor, is she ok? _Is she OK?_ "

Creed fell backwards, sitting down on the floor.

He felt sick.

He saw his daughter, his perfect baby daughter, the one he'd been so anxious to meet, squirming in his hands. So small, so delicate, so light… mewling in such an… unbaby-like way… his precious…

"Victor!"

Her hands. Her tiny little hands. They had claws. Three claws each. Coming out of her knuckles. Three tiny bone claws in between each knuckle. Three tiny little bone cla…

"Give me my daughter!"

He looked up to face Isabel. She was kneeling in front of him, panting and snarling.

"Give her to me!"

He pulled himself away from her instictively as the woman took the child, holding it fiercely.

"Get out. Get the fuck out of here. OUT!"

Creed scrambled backwards, got up, tripped and got up again. He opened the door and stumbled against the corridor wall till he got to the living room where he fell to his knees and threw out everything he had in his stomach.

Then he scrambled up again and got out of the house.

The cold outside hit him like a bucket of ice and he found himself dry heaving against the property's outside wall. His body was burning up and the cold couldn't soothe it, even as he felt his body shivering out of control. He still couldn't think. His brain was drowning, overpowered by the intoxicating mix of scents he'd been sunk in in the bedroom, and his vision was blurred and…

This was a nightmare.

Yes. It was a nightmare. He'd spent December sleeping poorly, nightmare on top of nightmare. Isabel dying, the baby ripping her belly open with claws. His claws. Proper claws. Claw-like nails. Not…

He was dreaming.

He pulled himself up, breathed in the cold air.

He was going to wake up, Isabel would look at him worried, he'd go out to clear his head, then he'd come back in, she'd snuggle up to him…

Bad dream.

He'd wake up any minute now.

Just a bad dream.

He laughed. A hollow chuckle. His baby girl being born with Logan's claws. What a joke!

He could still smell her. He'd gotten a whiff of her scent underneath all the blood and amniotic fluid and hormones and… his baby daughter's scent. So wonderful and perfect.

Wake up, damn it!

Please, it had to be a dream!

He started walking around in the front yard of the house.

Wake up, wake up. But he wasn't going to, was he? Because it wasn't a… it…

Please…

He punched the jeep.

How coult it be!

How could…

How?

He felt a berserker rage coming but it didn't burst. His perfect baby girl, his own flesh and blood, his precious, perfect… He felt sick again and dry-heaved some more.

He had to find out how.

He opened the door of the jeep and… the keys.

He got back in the house, the intoxicating scents sliding down the corridor to fill the room, and he shook his head. He had to clear his head and figure it out, how this could be… because it couldn't! He got his wallet and his keys and took off.

He had to find out.

His precious baby girl.

* * *

Pain had vanished the moment she'd seen his face.

It was the face of unimaginable horror.

Then she'd looked at her baby, mad with fear herself, and she'd seen her hands. Fear had vanished, even as she'd suddenly realised the danger. She'd have died to protect her daughter. She'd have killed Victor to protect her.

Kneeling on the bedroom floor, a white sheet over a large sheet of plastic over a thick fluffly carpet, Isabel nursed her daughter. Hoarsely, she sang to her while caressing her little head.

Soon, though, she'd have to get up. Soon…

His expression haunted her.

Slowly, she pulled her baby daughter away. The placenta had come out of its own accord and had slithered towards her left leg, which was now soaked in blood and other fluids. She looked at the open door, allowing cold air to come into the hot room, and wondered where Victor had gone.

She had just wanted to get him away from her precious baby, not to…

The bone spikes coming out of the child's hands had been tiny, but now they were gone. As gone as Victor. Guess she had been right to not go to hospital, huh?

Isabel whimpered as she got to her feet. Adrenaline was gone now, so pain and fatigue were saying hello. Well, she had no time for those just yet. She had to get to the bed where she'd laid everything ready for Victor to help her. She had to tie the umbilical cord with a thread of white linen then cut it. Then she'd wash the child and dress her up. She'd sprinkle the baby's remnant of the cord with the same mix of herbs her grandma had used, to prevent disease and favour speedy healing.

She lay the child on the bed and went through each step carefully. Then, before dressing her, she wet her hand on the warm water and crossed her forehead.

"I baptise you in the name of the father, and the son, and the holy spirit. Amen. I beseech thee, Virgin Mary, Holy Mother, to look after this child, to protect her body and her soul. I bessech thee to act as her spiritual godmother and guide her steps. And I hereby name her…"

Isabel hesitated. Victoria Isabel, Victor had said. No. Lilia. Victoria Lilia. Hmm, not the best sound. Lilia Victoria. Yes, it worked.

"I hereby name this child, under the protection of the loving Mother of God, Lilia Victoria de Fatima Creed-Kredall. May God protect you."

Now she could take care of herself.

Isabel glanced at the door. What if Victor came back now? Would he have straightened his head by now?

Just in case, she took the baby with her into the bathroom in order to wash herself.

"We'll have to go to hospital, my love," she told the child, grimacing through her grooming. "But we'll have to revise our story. Your Pappa was supposed to drive us there and say it had all been so fast, we hadn't had time to do anything."

What would she say instead?

She got dressed and picked up the newborn before going out of the room. She closed the door to the street, noticing the vomit all over the floor.

"I don't think I can make up any story to explain this to the ambulance staff. Can you?"

She grumbled and closed her eyes. All she wanted was to lie down and rest. Her legs were threatening to give way and her insides were throbbing.

Damn it all to hell! She grabbed the landline phone and threw it against the wall.

"There. I have no phone to call anyone. I better get in the car and go to hospital, right?"

Breathing out, she put on a coat and got her car keys and her wallet then left. Victor's jeep was gone. She shook her head not to think about it and headed to her own car. It was a small thing, much more appropriate to drive through the narrow local roads and streets than Victor's monster jeep.

First of all, she turned on the four blinking lights. She'd drive slowly – had to! – and she'd honk whenever she came across anyone. Hopefully, she wouldn't have to drive all the way because someone would have a phone on them and call an ambulance.

Who was she kidding. She looked at the car's watch: it was 2 am! Who was going to be out on the street?

"Let's go, my love."

It was not easy, but she could do it. If that fucking telepath had dissected her and she'd lived through it, she could handle this too.

In the newborn car seat, little Lilia started mewling.

"Hush, hush, my love. We'll be fine. It'll all be just fine. I don't need your father to do this."

Driving as slowly as she was, she had time to think. It surprised her she didn't blame him for walking out like that. What did she expect? The man had issues.

"Let that be a lesson to you, my love. Because this is what happens when people have issues. They let you down."

But maybe it was for the best. The look on his face… Right now, it was safer for her baby girl to have him gone rather than around. The only question was whether he'd return. And if he did…

Maybe it was best if he did not return. She wanted to tell herself good riddance but couldn't really bring herself to do it. Maybe it had been just the shock. Maybe he was just straightening his head and would come back in the morning, regretting his reaction in silence.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

But surely…

It was not important right now.

Ah, but it killed her inside, this joke of fate. He had been so invested, so… if the child had been born with claws similar to his, he'd have been over the moon, would have been a perfect Pappa.

Of course it is easy to be a perfect Pappa when everything's going smoothly. It's when the shit hits the fan that you see how one truly behaves.

"You can't rely on people with issues," she told her daughter again.

But that was ok. She still had plenty to be grateful for. He had saved her life. He had helped her back to her feet. He had given her a daughter. So what if he'd taken off for good? She could manage. She could manage just fine. It was all a matter of counting one's blessings and ignoring one's evils. Piece of cake.

Damn the man!

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	39. Alentejo: The Return

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **39\. Alentejo: The Return**

Isabel stretched, half-asleep. Eyes closed in the warmth of the dark bedroom, savouring the smooth sheets wrapped around her body, the weight of the blanket. As her thoughts became coherent enough, it occurred to her that Lilia might have made a sound that had roused her, but her ears registered only silence and her eyes fluttered open, to grasp a glimpse of the crib and assure herself all was well. She frowned in the effort and glimpsed only the window, so she breathed out a sleepy groan and turned to the other side, eyes shut again. It would be best not to fully wake up before Lilia decided she was hungry. She cracked open only an eye this time, and sleepiness abandoned her.

Victor was standing there, towering over the crib.

She was aware she was not breathing as her mind gripped the idea that she was dreaming. Hadn't she dreamt this same vision so many times?

His body was turned to the sleeping baby, his eyes glowing at her.

Isabel sat up, her hands moving as rehearsed. For even if she had never practised the movements physically, in her mind she'd done them over a thousand times. She switched the lamp on with a slow, steady movement; then she sat up, her left hand clutching the pillow against her stomach as her right hand got hold of the adamantium dagger underneath it, keeping it hidden till it was time to use it.

He did not move. Not a sound.

She felt her breathing resume its steady rhythm. She had spent the last three months longing for his return, and dreading it at the same time.

He had given so many signs of being a good father during the pregnancy. Attentive, protective, steady. She had loved his eagerness to drink up every little rant she spun about taking care of babies, dealing with toddler tantrums, or helping children to grow strong. And then the shock playing across his features when the baby had been born. The pain. For a moment, a precious moment she doubted she'd ever witness again, Victor Creed had let his guard down and been hurt beyond his nightmares.

She had feared the worst, then. But the moment she'd told him to go he had simply stumbled outside like a drunken man desperate for fresh air, and vanished.

Now, looking at his sillouette in the dark, she wondered if he had returned for his child or to fix a mistake. His shocked expression was too vivid in her mind, though; and he was too silent. She grabbed the hilt more securely. As if it would do her any good!

"Have you come to kill her?"

She was aware of how harsh her voice sounded in the silence.

"Don't be stupid!" His voice was low and steady and her shoulders relaxed. Thank God and Our Lady! "She's _mine_. Why would I kill her?"

Her mind didn't have time to think up an answer. In a split second, his hands were on her right wrist, pulling it up and tying her stomach into a churning knot.

"What the hell did ya think _you_ was gonna do? Kill me ta stop me?"

"I know I can't kill you," her voice rasped thoughtlessly.

"So what was ya gonna do, huh?"

"Protect my daughter," she said hoarsely, fighting those mesmerising eyes. "And die after I fail."

Because, obviously, she would have failed. Who, after all, could stop Victor Sabretooth Creed from killing whom he wished to?

She felt the dagger fly off her hand. Heard it hitting the floor and sliding away.

"Don't be a melodramatic ass. First of all, ya don't gotta protect nuthin'," he said, his voice lower and harder. "That's _my_ job. All _you_ gotta do is ta keep her fed and… clean or whatever it is ya do."

He let go of her with a dismissive movement.

"She's my flesh and blood. How the hell could _you_ think I'd wanna hurt her?"

A mix of shame and relief burnt her cheeks. She had told herself so many times he would never… but she had never really believed it, had she? Not after seeing his horrified expression. Perhaps she should have believed in him. He'd invested so much over those eight months, he'd given himself so fully to the unborn child. She should have had more faith in him.

"You are right. I'm sorry."

He turned his back on her and anger bubbled up. She might have been wrong not to trust he wouldn't hurt his child, but it ended there. She had been wrong on one thing; he had been wrong on three months of things. Three!

"But what did you want me to think when you left? I saw your face. You didn't want her. Not with…"

She almost said 'those claws' but decided at the last minute not to. Not that she was afraid, but she never wanted to see that expression on his face again, not anywhere near her daughter; she didn't want to risk bringing it up.

He looked back at her and her blood boiled in her veins. She wanted to shame him, to slap him. But what for? He wasn't the type of man to say sorry or acknowledge a wrongdoing. Even if he happened to know he'd done wrong and was ashamed of it. Why anger him? Why risk bringing out Sabretooth? Once more, it would only endanger her daughter.

She bit her tongue as he stepped slowly back towards her. She bit her tongue as his hand snaked gently around her neck. Bit her tongue as his other hand fastened tentatively around her arm.

"I come an' go whenever I feels like it," he growled. Oh, how she'd missed that rumble! And she hated herself for it even as she hated him for saying that. "And _you_ ain't gotta think nuthin'."

No. It was too much. She could not take this kind of fucked up humilliation lying down.

"Oh," She was aware there was poison dripping. But maybe not enough poison. "So you want to abandon us for months in a row without a word and expect us to just wait with a happy face, is that it?"

She felt him stiffen, heard the growl.

"You have any idea what I went through? You have any idea what it's like to be completely alone in the fucking world with a newborn in your arms?"

She slapped his arm with a 'get your hands off me' and got up without a hint of resistance on his part. It surprised her even as she took a couple of steps to his side.

"You have the nerve to walk in here like you own me? You _abandoned_ me, Victor. Whatever you thought you owned, you walked out on. You gave it all up. You don't own shit!"

Lilia started crying. He was still facing the bed, though, not looking at her. Isabel turned to get her baby girl, rocked her a bit.

"She eats every two or three hours, Victor. A feeding takes 30 minutes, I change her diaper, I rock her back to sleep and one hour later starts over again. When do I sleep? When do I eat? When do I go shopping for food and diapers and… She cried day and night for five weeks, Victor. I spent these last months sleeping one or two hours at a time because I had no one, _no one_ to help me."

She was now talking to his back. If his expression hadn't changed, he looked neither ashamed nor guilty, but in the very least he was aware he'd acted badly. Maybe not aware enough, though.

"You have the nerve to walk in here and growl like I'm in the wrong, saying you are the one whose job is to protect her? Were you around to protect anyone for three months? Were you? _I_ was the one who protected her. _I_ was the one who suffered for her. And you? What did you do? Damn it, Victor! I didn't even know if you would ever come back! I've been worried sick, because if the money on my account ran out… what would I do? How can I get a job with a three month old baby in my arms and no family to help out? I've been saving money as much as possible but… Damn you, Victor!"

"Ya don't understand," he grumbled in a whisper, still looking at the bed.

"I understand perfectly well why you left, Victor. I'm not stupid. I saw your face when… I saw your face. I can understand perfectly well that you needed to clear your head. But three months? _Three months_? And not a single word? _That_ I cannot understand. It took you three whole months to decide you wanted to have a daughter despite everything? No. I'm sorry. That much time is something I cannot understand. And then you're surprised I thought you wanted her gone for good."

Rocking was not enough, though, as Lilia's crying was intensifying. Breathing out, she went back to the bed.

"Move. She has to eat."

He took a couple of steps to the side, but his eyes did not once turn to her. Was that what a regretful Victor Creed looked like? Isabel breathed out to calm herself, before she unbuttoned her nightdress and got a breast out. Lilia was uncommonly fussy though, and it took some insistent coaxing to get her to latch on to the nipple and suckle properly.

Some of the anger softened as her precious baby suckled, and Isabel breathed out more calmly. Felt her body relax.

"So…" She looked up and was surprised to see him watching her, but he turned away immediately. "Can you please explain to me what's so bad that kept you away from us for three months?"

He paced aimlessly around, his back to her. Silent. So now he didn't want to talk, did he? Fine. She'd do it all by herself. That was ok. She was already used to it.

"I know it's about… her… uh…" Once more she hesitated to say claws. "Her powers."

The man was tame enough, for the time being, and she didn't want him getting aggressive. How to go about this?

"I know… I know it's not a common power. I mean, the way it… the appearance. But it's not unique. I mean… I know you hate that guy and you don't want your daughter to have the same… the same powers as the guy you hate but… He's not the only one with those… that power. I saw the documentaries after M-Day. There are lots of mutants that have similar powers. Telepaths, telekinetics, flying with wings, flying without wings…"

"It's unique," he said in a rough voice, if subdued. For now. Well, at least he was talking. "There's only one other mutant I've ever seen wi' that type o' claws, if ya don't count his son and his clone, and no one knows where she came from. All anyone knows was that she was involved in the same Weapon X programme as me an' Logan, back in the Cold War times. Could even have been a clone, as fucked up as that would'ave been."

"Clone?"

He glanced at her and for once she could clearly see he was feeling insecure. Pained. He looked away again, paced around till she couldn't look at him.

"Yeah, clone. There's plenty o' folks clonin' folks around. Well, not plenty but… ya get the idea."

So… what did that mean? She decided to go back to the main topic. She didn't want to know about clones, anyway.

"Well, _your_ daughter has them, so they're not that unique."

"It runs in the family."

He said it in such a low voice that Isabel only understood 'in the family'.

"What do you mean, in the family? You and him… you're… what? You're family? You're cousins or something?"

"Somethin'."

Isabel had no idea why Victor hated that man, Logan. Wolverine. He had never even mentioned him that often. But the few times he had mentioned him, Isabel had felt how much Victor hated him. It was palpable.

"There's never hate as strong as the one that runs in-between siblings," she shook her head as she mumbled the clichéd idea to herself.

"Shut up! Ya don't know nuthin'!"

She sure as hell knew this wasn't a good topic to insist in.

"No, I don't know, and I don't want to know either. All I do want to know is what you're going to do about your daughter. Are you going to recognise her as your own, or what?"

"She IS my own!"

The roar startled Lilia, who started crying, and Victor's newfound anger died down. He rubbed his hands nervously and came closer as Isabel did her best to lead her back to the nipple.

"Why's she cryin'?"

Isabel scoffed.

"It's what a baby does when they're startled, Victor. It's always a good idea not to shout around one."

She gave it up and rocked her a bit, hush, hush, my love, before trying again.

"She's very fussy today."

Victor sat softly at her side.

"She looks like she's starvin'," he said, absent-minded, when the child resumed her feeding.

"She always does," Isabel smiled. "One has to eat a lot to grow big and strong, isn't that right, my love?"

"She doesn't know me," he sounded regretful. Maybe even hurt. Good.

"Wonder why."

"I meant that's why she's fussy. 'Cause she doesn't know me."

Isabel looked up, not following him and a pleasant shiver ran up her spine at how close he was.

"She's a feral," he explained, looking her in the eyes.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Ferals are mutants whose powers are closer t'animals. The most basic feral power is heightened senses. Most also have healin' factors as well as claws an' fangs. A few are covered in fur. The strength o' the heightened senses an' the healin' factor can vary a whole lot, but it's part o' the basic feral package. She doesn't recognise my scent so that makes her feel edgy. Not safe."

Isabel didn't say anything. One of the things that had worried her sick was how she'd teach the child to use her powers. She had thought she might develop the same powers as Victor, and how could she have taught her how to fully use and develop them?

Lilia had finished her meal by now, and Isabel placed her against her shoulder so she could burp.

"I'm happy you are here," she admitted.

It was true, despite everything. It was so very true. If only he wasn't such an ass!

There, all burped up. Isabel got up and looked at Victor, who once more looked away. She had to pull him in. She had no idea how badly affected the bond the man had created during the pregnancy was, which only made it more urgent to help him remake the bond. If he became as invested again as he had been until the day of her birth, Isabel could breathe more easily. Could be more confident he'd do anything to protect the child.

"Do you want to hold her?"

His gaze shot up but she couldn't quite read his expression.

"She needs to get to know her Pappa," she added.

He didn't say anything, just looked at her, almost holding his breath, it seemed. At least it seemed so to her. Of course she was dead tired. She could be imagining things. Fine. It was best not to insist too much. She wanted him to long to reconnect, not to feel forced to do it. Maybe tomorrow. Isabel returned the sleepy child to the crib and came back to the bed.

He sat there, his gaze once more straying away from her. Why didn't he just say he was sorry and went for make-up sex?

Isabel knew that sex could mean a whole lot of different things for the man. It could mean that he was feeling passionate, or just lustful; that he wanted to comfort her, or wanted to be comforted; that he was feeling playful, or solemn; that he wanted to reward her, or to punish her; that he was feeling rough, or gentle. Or that he was annoyed, cheerful, restless… Whatever the matter, you could always trust Victor Creed to fix it with either a fight or sex. But make-up sex, they'd never had that. Turf-marking or fighting sex? Sure. Make-up sex? Never. Had it occurred to him that, since sorry was so very difficult for him, then, maybe, make-up sex was a good alternative. Not the ideal, definitely, but a good first step at any rate.

Well, if he thought she was going to start anything, he had another thing coming.

"I need to try and get some sleep. Lilia is going to wake up hungry in two or three hours and I can't have the luxury of wasting sleeping time." He looked at her, but he didn't move. "Can you maybe get up so I can go to bed?"

He got up immediately, stepped aside.

"Thank you."

She felt an irresistible urge to cry her heart out as she climbed back into the now cold sheets and switched off the lamp. She wanted him to get in bed and hold her tight, so tight it hurt. She missed his warmth and strength; the safety of his arms. She missed the way he rubbed his head against her neck, breathing in deeply, then held her tight. He missed how he whispered 'my Nesi', 'mi Nesita', 'oh Inês' in the dead of the night or in the heat of sex. He missed it all so desperately!

She could hear him moving quietly in the room. She could tell he was going back to the crib to gaze at his daughter.

Frowning furiously, Isabel dared those damned tears to wet a single eyelash. She'd go to hell herself before she allowed herself to cry for the jerk! Gone for three months and coming back ready to treat her like trash. How could he!

The mattress creaked suddenly as his weight pressed down on the other side of the bed. What… She held her breath as she felt him climb into the bedsheets, but then he quieted down. Unfortunately, the bed was wide enough that he didn't touch her. She could have killed to feel his touch. Damned jerk! Why didn't he come closer and hold her? Stupid, dumb asshole!

Isabel closed her eyes shut. She was not going to cry. The blasted man could smell her tears and she was _not_ going to give him the satisfaction of smelling any weakness coming from her. She'd die before that could happen.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	40. Alentejo: Happiness

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 _Just a reminder: this story is set in the comic book universe, not the movieverse. However, when I first plotted this tale, Dog Logan - back in Wolverine's origin story - hadn't yet been revealed not to be Victor Creed. But since I thought Creed's hate for Logan could be so easily explained by that tale, I determined that Dog Logan was indeed Victor Creed._

 _The movies decided to go with them being brothers, too. However, in my version, Logan has never made a connection between Dog Logan and Victor Creed. To be fair, Creed had never made the connection either._

 _If anyone is interested in learning more about how I 'turned' Dog Logan into Victor Creed, you can read the story "The Underdog". No pressure, though._

 _I won't keep you from the chapter any longer. Have fun!_

* * *

 **40\. Alentejo: Happiness**

The sun was still far from rising. Lying on his side, Victor Creed watched the woman's back as his child was fed.

He had spent the last two and a half hours lying quietly by the sleeping woman, fighting against the urge to touch her. It hurt inside, but he could not touch her.

 _You abandoned me._

It was true. No matter how one looked at it, and he'd spent those two and a half hours looking at it in every perspective possible; no matter how one looked at it, the bottom line was that he had abandoned them.

 _You don't own shit._

He didn't. He wanted to say it wasn't so, but he could feel it was true. He himself barely felt like he belonged in his own house. He barely felt like he had the right to… If only he had phoned the woman! If only he had somehow maintained contact! Why hadn't he? Why… why had he thrown to the wind the best thing to ever happen to him? He hadn't thought about it that way. He hadn't thought about it at all! He had just… driven off like mad. That hadn't been his fault. But then his head had grown cold and he'd thought out his next moves. That he'd done with a cool head. He'd gotten his bearings and headed to Madrid. He had thought about the woman, then. He'd gotten on a plane to Canada. Even if had spent the entire wait on the lounge and the entire flight thinking about his woman and newborn child, flaying himself for leaving, flaying himself for those damned claws, swearing he'd find out how it could be even if it was the last thing he did…

All through those damned three months, the scent of his pregnant woman and newborn daughter had remained heavy with him. It had pulled him back every moment, but he'd coldly pushed it away and kept going. He had stopped himself from even thinking about them. Constantly fighting against his instinct to return.

He'd done so in cold blood.

On purpose.

He'd fought to put them out of his thoughts… and in doing so he had thrown them out of his life.

He could see it. It even made sense! He didn't like it, but he felt the truth of it.

He'd abandoned his woman and child to hunt his past.

She was right. He didn't own shit. Not anymore.

Well, except his daughter. She was still his; would always be not matter what. His blood ran strong inside her.

But she still didn't fully belong to him. Why else did he long to touch and yet shrunk from doing so? What else explained it? His instinct was telling him he had no right to touch the child. His own child.

Because he'd abandoned her. It was like a spear stuck through his chest being twisted around over and over.

Isabel got up and turned around, laying the child on the bed, and he quickly averted his gaze. She didn't pay him no nevermind, though, and his eyes slid back to the scene. Damn, that diaper stank.

He got a good view of his daughter's head. His little Victoria. Such dark, silky strands of hair, he couldn't help but appreciate despite the lamp having a weak light. He breathed in, slowly, purposefully, splitting apart the child's alluring fragrance from the smelly poop. But that got the woman's attention so he quickly looked away.

He couldn't face her. Didn't know how. He wanted her to say it was ok, that she still wanted to belong to him. She wanted her to smile and look at him the way she used to, with all her loving devotion. Did she have any idea how much he missed the way she looked at him? The way she sang for him? How much he missed her love for him? He wanted it back, all of it. But she hated him now. If he were any other guy, she'd have kicked him out, he knew. Given the chance to choose without any bad consequences, she would very likely leave him and never look back again. Because he'd abandoned her. It's not like he had meant to! He hadn't even realised he'd effectively turned his back on her till she'd thrown it to his face. He really hadn't meant to.

But he still couldn't face her. What if he saw nothing but hate in her eyes? He could deal with her anger fine, she'd gotten royally pissed at him before. She always got over it, eventually, and he barely had to do anything. But the prospect of seeing hate where he longed to see love…

A little voice grumbled he should teach her her place, but it didn't echo because the woman knew her place, and her place was untouchable. It was instinctive. He might have shut down those instincts while he was away but, here, once more under the sobering balm of those heady scents, he knew it was so. Even if he had tried to follow that hateful voice, the night before. He remembered the feel of her skin as he'd gently wrapped a hand around her neck, as he'd grabbed her arm… his hands had tingled. He had fought against kissing her, against holding her tight and breathing in that scent of hers, so different now from when she was pregnant, and still so powerful. Maybe even more so. Sweet and strong. The moment she'd shaken him off, he knew he wouldn't be able to do it again.

Maybe if he did something that made her happy… But what? What could make her happy enough to forget her anger?

Isabel rocked the child, singing one of her sad fados. Sing mine, he wanted to ask. The one where you die in my arms, looking adoringly at me every step of the way.

But she'd never look at him that way again.

He really had to do something to change that. He had to think something up…

She placed the child in the crib, sang a bit longer, then came back to the bed. Creed was careful to close his eyes and pretend he was asleep. He didn't want her to talk to him just yet. She might tell him to get out. The way he'd said back then. Out. What would he do if she said it?

But she didn't say anything. She just switched off the lamp and went back to sleep, so he could breathe easily again. At least for the time being. He needed to think up ways to make her happy. Once she was happy, she'd get over it all and she'd say she wanted to be his again, for always and always, as she'd said before, and all would be well again.

Creed closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

The room still had an echo of the intoxicating smells accumulated during labour. There were new scents over it, but it was still there. Through the sheets, the heat of the woman's body called out to him and he grabbed his hands, popped his knuckles.

He couldn't risk touching her and have her kick him out again. He just couldn't. What he had to do was think up a way to make her happy and loving again. Now think, he told himself sternly. What will make her happy?

* * *

The sun hadn't risen yet, even if the birds were already anticipating it. Lying on his side, Victor Creed once more watched the woman's back as his child was fed.

He was breathing in long, deep inhalations as a way to make up for not being able to get closer. He was breaking apart every component of the scents accumulated in the room and savouring them, studying them. Making sense of each one.

There were no words, no nothing that could describe the scent of his child. It was a heady mixture wrapped up in Isabel's sweetness. Even though the child was undeniably his, Isabel's scent all over her made her as untouchable as the woman herself. He owned the child and still did not own her. It made no sense, but his insides seemed to accept it as a fact that could not be fought. While the child did not have his own scent enveloping her, she wouldn't be completely his. It was difficult to fully apprehend his baby's scent. It was absolutely unique and completely apart from any other fragrance he'd ever experienced. He needed to get closer, to sniff her from head to toe. He just didn't know when he'd have the chance to do so.

The woman's scent was something else that needed studying. Isabel's original scent, the basic one that indentified who she was, was almost buried under… perhaps buried wasn't the right word. It was entwined with the smell of milk. Not just any milk, like the one you buy at supermarkets or milk out of cows. This one was warm and sweeter than any sweetened thing he'd ever smelled… it was so hard to describe! It wasn't musky but it was as strong and vibrant as if it were. It smelled of security and reliability. It smelled like the perfect refuge, comforting and impenetrable. It enveloped mother and child, and it enthralled him. It was particularly strong while Isabel breastfed, but it never went away.

When Creed had first arrived in the house, it had been that scent which had first hit him. By the time he had reached the bedroom, he was almost a zombie, without a will. It had pulled him to the crib and he'd remained there, drinking in the image and the scents, until the child had woken up. Her eyes had found his and she'd frozen. Creed had smelt fear emanating from his baby girl, his own flesh and blood, as she played dead. It had cut him up inside.

Eventually, she'd started whimpering and Isabel had woken up. He had not expected the woman to look at him as a threat. The child was his own blood and flesh! How could she? He'd gotten the stupid dagger off her hands and… How could she? Never, not even once, through his anger and frustration, through his berserker rages, had he even fleetingly considered killing her. It was as alien a thought as trying to kill himself.

The child became restless and stopped drinking for a fussy moment but Isabel led her back to the nipple.

Creed closed his eyes and breathed in abruptly. Damn! That sweet milky scent captured his attention and made him want to lock both mother and child in the farthest, loneliest, safest hiding-hole he could find. A soothingly simple imperative that vibrated through his whole being. That scent was like a protective bubble, pacifying any dangerous mood that might come close and making them untouchable.

Once the feeding was over, Isabel propped up the child against her shoulder so she could burp. The perfect little hand stumbled in the air until it got a blind hold of Isabel's arm. So absolutely perfect, the little fingers, the tiny nails. He could almost see himself reaching to touch it. Could almost feel the delicate fingers latching securely against his own. But he couldn't do so, and it was not only because of that defensive scent.

The memory of the darned claws was superimposed over the tiny perfection. Being received by his child's fear of a stranger had been painful, but his mind kept conjuring a thought that cut him deeper than any blade could ever. Here was the most precious thing he had ever owned and Logan, Wolverine, James and whatever he called himself, still found a way to steal it from him. It cut all the way to his very soul, if he had one.

Isabel laid the child on her lap and started chatting up stupid nonsense. The child, not knowing any better, seemed to enjoy it. Then the woman moved on to a stupid Portuguese chant that repeated itself like a dumb mantra: give, give to Mamma; give, give the apple. What was that supposed to mean?

But apparently, babies liked stupidity because the face of the little thing crunched up into an ugly grimace as its mouth opened wide, showing off the toothless gums. It was damned ugly, but, neverthless, Creed recognised it as a clumsy attempt at a smile and resented that it was directed at the woman rather than him.

"Dá, dá à Mamã; dá, dá a maçã."

Nothing belonged to Victor Creed as completely as that child. The one thing he had brought into existence. And so perfect, if you didn't think about… So absolutely perfect.

The child shrieked happily as the legs kicked cheerfully about.

"Dá, dá ao Papá;" he looked suddenly at the woman, just as she looked inquisitively at him. "What rhymes wid Papá?"

"Huh?"

"Ah! Dá, dá… uma pá!"

Give pappa a spade? What?

The woman was kissing the child's hands and bringing forth shriek after delighted shriek.

Why was the woman repeating stupid, nonsense rhymes? What the hell was the child supposed to learn? That rhymes are more important than meaning? She should be teaching… he didn't know, something meaningful!

"Do you want coffee?"

Creed's mind reeled at the sudden question. Did it mean she was not angry anymore? Did it mean she was ready to belong to him again?

"No?" She said before it dawned on him he was supposed to answer. "Ok."

She got up and laid the child carefully on the bed.

"She can't turn yet, so she can't fall from de bed, but keep an eye on her, ok?"

He watched her leave and felt hopeful. She was getting over her anger. He just had to think up things that made her happy and…

The child's prattle got his attention. She was trying to stuff a hand down her throat and Creed's first thought was 'what if the claws come out now?'. Obviously, he acted before he could think twice and gently pulled the hand away from possible harm. It was warm and tender, the little arm. The child kicked the bed fearfully and started making bubbles with spit, then produced a string of sounds that he doubted any language possessed.

"That's what happens when nobody teaches ya nuthin' meaningful," he grumbled.

He was still holding the arm and the child became perfectly still. For a moment, reason crept in and reminded him of… The face twitched into a pout and he picked the child up in an instinctive reaction. He had not expected the head to roll the way it did but he quickly supported it, before bringing the child against his chest, looking for a comfortable position that might soothe the upcoming crying. Her soft skin slid gently over his and how could he have not picked her up before?

"Shush," he whispered, as the little thing squirmed, frightened, her little heart beating wildly as she whimpered, and he searched for a better position to quiet her down.

Letting the little body snuggle in the crook of his arm, he gazed into the wide greyish eyes. Such long eyelashes!

"Now, ya listen ta me," he said sternly, pleasure and pain washing all over him as he realised the child was once more playing dead. But perhaps she'd realise there was nothing to fear if he just kept talking. "Ya can't stuck yer hand inside yer mouth like that, ya hear? It ain't safe."

The child blinked, and started chewing a scared yan-yan monologue in a growing anxious pitch as her legs kicked fretfully and her little hands became tight fists.

"Ah…"

Creed looked up at the door, where Isabel stood, holding her breath. Her expression showed her feelings clearly, a mixture of surprise, fear and relief. Then her body relaxed and she came closer as the child's demanding prattle turned into urgent whimpering.

"Do you want Mamma, my beauty," Isabel asked, a wide smile on her face. He realised for the first time how tired her face looked, how deep those dark circles under her eyes were. "But Pappa is going to be sad, my love! He wants to say _hi_. Why don't you say hi to Pappa too, hun? Go on… Hi, Pappa!"

The child simply squirmed more demandingly, her face a clear warning that crying was seconds away, and Creed once again placed a hand to steady the weak neck so he could give the child back to her Mamma.

"Give her time," she told him as she sat on the bed, the child immediately peaceful. "She can get very suspicious with strangers, but she'll get to know you in no time. Isn't that right, my love?"

She rocked her a little then took her back to the crib, sang another depressing song. Finally, she came back to the bed and took off the robe. Outside the sun was rising, its light already piercing through the shutters.

Creed sat, not moving a muscle, till she was asleep. Then he got up, put on the shirt he'd taken off before getting in bed and went to the kitchen. It was time he started making up for his mistake.

The fridge was well stocked, and so was the freezer and the pantry. There was no need for him to go out shopping for her then. Diapers! He looked for them all around and discovered them piled up next to the crib in the baby room.

They'd had so much fun putting the place together. The walls covered in the northern pine trees, the ceiling covered in stars. The only white wall covered with childish, soft-coloured bands of cartoon horses, chubby and large-headed, frolicking in different positions. The first band had been put up by Isabel but it had come out all crooked. Creed had taken the other bands out of her hands and gotten them up perfectly. Then he'd gotten a marker and written 'your mamma's handywork'. Isabel had laughed and written 'your pappa's bright idea' in Portuguese on the white wall, an arrow pointing at the forest covered walls. He'd taken the marker back and circled the word 'bright'. 'Extremely', he'd added above it. He trailed a finger over her hand-writing before looking around him. They'd agreed that the carriage-bed pulled by rocking horses would be set up once she was a bit older, up in Canada, so the crib in the baby room had ended up as a look-alike to the one in Isabel's b… no, their bedroom. It was still their bedroom.

Anyway, she had plenty of diapers.

He went outside, looking for something to do, and came across her car. It was filthy. Great! He had it cleaned inside out in less than half an hour, including the oil and water checked, not to mention the windshield washer fluid. There. Next.

Only there was no next. The house could use some serious cleaning, but he wasn't going to make any noise that could wake mother and child.

He went back to the bedroom. He leaned over the sleeping child and breathed in her scent. Deeply. Methodically. He fancied he could break it apart into sections and even analyse its intricacies. And at the same time, he was mildly aware that he was instilling into his very core the whole of that fragrance, including its soothing and mellowing effect. He leaned further, till his nose was almost touching the sleeping figure, and sniffed it thoroughly from head to toe.

Her little members started twisting about before he was finished and her breathing became more laboured, her scent becoming clouded by the aroma of fear. Then her eyes popped open with a fearful whimper.

"Sh, girl. Don't be scared," he said softly. "There's nuthin' t' be scared of. Ya're mine, and I'll keep ya safe with me. Promise. I'll always keep ya safe. No need t'be afraid."

It made no nevermind that she couldn't understand his words. She'd learn soon enough it was true, that he meant nothing but safety and protection. She would learn it very much the way he had figured out how to hold her weak neck. Instinct. Once he stuck around for a while, the child would instinctively pick up that undeniable truth.

The baby whimpered again, her little heart beating fast, and Creed fought against picking her up. She'd just start crying, wouldn't she?

"Hush, girl. Let yer mamma sleep, ya hear?"

But the child wouldn't quiet down, not with a stranger that close by. For the woman's sake, he left. She had better appreciate his sacrifice.

What else could he do for the woman? What did she need… The idea flashed through and he sprinted out, got in the jeep, sped away.

* * *

When he returned, it was half past ten in the morning. He once more sneaked into the dark bedroom, sat on the floor by the crib and leaned against the wall. The child was sleeping but the sweet smell of breastfeeding was stronger than when he'd left. He closed his eyes to relax but the child woke up again and got his attention. He didn't resist, this time, and he put a couple of fingers in between the bars to caress her little head. She started crying. Shit.

"Already?" Isabel mumbled sleepily, getting up with a tired yawn and dragging her feet towards the crib. "Don't cry, my love. Mamma's he... God!"

What?

"Damn it, man! You gave me such a fright! What are you doing there?"

Creed got up from behind the crib.

"I wasn't doin' nuthin'," he grumbled as Isabel picked the crying girl. "She just started cryin', 's all. I didn't do nuthin'."

She looked at him with a weird frown, then went back to the bed and sat down. It was not fair. He was trying to do things right, here. It wasn't his fault that…

"Come here," the woman said. "Maybe it's what you said. She can smell you and she doesn't recognise your scent. Sit here beside me."

Creed sat down and Isabel told him to embrace her.

"If she does have heightened senses, she better learn her Pappa's scent as fast as possible."

So very true! He embraced her as the child fussed in her mother's arms.

"Hush, hush, my love. It's pappa. Yes, it is. Pappa is here. Oh, yes, he is."

The child quieted down a bit but was still whining. Isabel got a hold of Creed's hand, sending a shiver up his spine, and placed it under her little head. The whining progressed into crying.

"Sh, my love. Can't you feel how big and strong your Pappa is? Can't you feel how he'll never let anything bad happen to you? Sh."

Creed adjusted himself to become more comfortable, tightening his grip on the woman's waist.

"What do you give to Pappa, my love, huh? What do you give to Pappa? A spade!" The crying toned down a bit even if the child wasn't completely calm yet. "Yes, you do. You give Pappa a spade. Give, give to Pappa. Give, give a spade. Yes."

He couldn't get it.

"Why are ya teachin' her nonsense? Ain't ya got nuthin' better ta teach?"

Isabel frowned at him immediately, but he was right on this one.

"It's a baby rhyme, Victor. It doesn't have to make sense. It has to distract her and help her start learning the basic sounds of language. It encourages babies to imitate you and learn how to produce sounds properly so they can then develop their speech abilities."

Oh. Well, in that case...

"Can't ya do that with rhymes that make sense?"

She scoffed and shook her head. What?

"Children like nonsense, Victor. It's funny for them. Besides, she doesn't even understand any of it yet. She just reacts to the sounds, that's all."

The girl's fuss swerved back to crying. Isabel took his hand away and held her on the nook of her arm, rocking her gently and singing something in whispers. Creed let his hand slip away from the woman's waist and frowned, frustrated. He had only been worried about his daughter. Singing stuff that made sense still sounded better than nonsense. And now Isabel was pissed again. How the hell was he supposed to make up for his absence if she kept dismissing everything he said and did?

He reached for the pocket of his jeans and took out a card.

"This is fer you," he said, holding it out for her.

Isabel looked at it but didn't pick it up.

"What is that?"

"It's a card of a solicitor. Ya're gonna hav'ta sign some paperwork in a week or two."

"What are you talking about, Victor?"

There was a tinge of alarm in her voice and he hurried to calm her down.

"It's nuthin' bad. I got money invested all over, ya know. I make a lot o' money as a hitman, but money is easy t'vanish. So I started investin' in real estate a few years back. It's the only way I can buy any car or bike I feels like an' never worry 'bout runnin' out o' money. I got a ton o' financial aliases so… Anyway, I buy a building in a fancy part o'town under an alias, I rent it fer apartments or offices, an' then I hire a law firm to manage it all. It's an easy way ta keep money comin' in."

"What does that got to do with me?"

"I got a solicitor to buy this house an' the house we lived in in Lisbon. I'm putting 'em both under _your_ name. It's probably a good idea t' get a company t' manage the Lisbon apartment fer you, to deal with rentin' an' stuff, so ya can make money off it rather than just spendin'. I'm also in the process o' gettin' an office building in Manhattan under yer name. It'll get ya much more money than these places."

She blinked, eyes wide in surprise.

"Why…"

"Ya was worried 'bout money," he explained the obvious. "Now ya don't hav'ta worry 'bout it again. That New York office block alone could get you in a week the double an' triple o' the money ya spend in a year!"

"So you are leaving again."

Huh? What the hell had he said that could have given her that stupid idea? Maybe she hadn't understood the English correctly.

"No," he said in Portuguese, aware he was about to slide into Spanish next. "No, I'm not going anywhere. I just wanted… you said you were worried about money. Now you don't have to worry about it. That's all."

"Do you promise?"

"What? That I'm not leaving? Yes! I promise you. I mean, I'll have to leave to work but… I'm not leaving as in… I'm not abandoning you. I'm not. Promise."

She breathed out sternly.

"But you have to promise me something else, Victor."

For as long as she cut him a break here, he'd promise anything! Well, almost anything.

"Promise that you will listen to me and that you will follow my advice when it comes to raising children, Victor Creed. You promise me that. Promise and hold on to that promise like your _life_ depends on it."

Sure, no sweat! She was the expert on the topic, not him. For a moment he had feared she wanted him to swear off criminal activities.

"I promise," he said in Portuguese.

"Raising a child is not just about family. It's not just about what happens inside the house. It involves the town. School. Neighbours. Even if the closest neighbour lives ten kilometres away, they still count as neighbours. Raising a child involves dealing with an entire community. So what you're promising involves you listening to what I know about living in a community, too, ok? Do you understand that?"

He hesitated. But there was no reason to hesitate. He knew how Isabel had weaved them into that Lisbon's neighborhood. He knew how she'd started creating a network of connections the moment she'd arrived in Alentejo. She could wrap a community around her little finger in no time if he let her do her thing freely.

"I understand and I promise." Oh, good idea! "I promise you, Inês."

Her body relaxed at the sound of her name. He should have thought about it sooner! Did that mean things were now patched up? Could he kiss her now and not worry about her rejecting his advance? Was she going to gaze devotedly again once he kissed her?

Hmm… Maybe he should wait a bit longer. Get some more weight off her shoulders. His baby girl was almost asleep again. He watched her while thinking about ways of softening the woman some more.

"So, what's fer lunch?"

She glared. What? He just wanted to know what she'd decided to have for lunch so he could get that worry off her hands!

"Leftovers. I'm cooking in bulk, these days. It saves time."

He had to tread lightly here. Maybe she didn't want him taking charge of food. It had always been her responsibility. Maybe she wanted to keep it as it was. Though if that was the case, the woman was a stupid dimwit. She needed to rest, not worry about housekeeping. Anyway, he had to tread lightly.

"Ok. Do you… uh… Are you… hungry? Do you want me to… uh… get you food?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. Now what?

"Thank you, but I ate a while ago, when I fed Lilia."

Wh…?

"Lilia?"

"Uh… Yes. I know you wanted her to be Victoria Isabel, and I am very happy and grateful that you wanted to name her after me, but… when the time came, I didn't want her named after me. I chose Lilia, instead."

Oh, ok.

"Victoria Lilia sounds fine," he said. Though it didn't, not really.

"Uh… Don't you think it has a strange rhythm like that?" The woman shrugged a bit. "Victoria Lilia just sounds… off. Lilia Victoria flows better. We can still call her Victoria. No one is stuck using the first name as the main item; one can choose to use the second as the one most used."

Lilia Victoria. So… Victoria was now… thrown to the background. That was a fucking petty revenge the woman had gone for.

"I have several cousins and aunts whose first name was Maria and no one ever used them; they were always called by their second names. We can call her Victoria if you prefer. It's all the same."

"Sure," he shrugged.

Ler her have her petty revenge. What did he care?

Isabel got up and placed the sleeping baby back on the crib. Then she came back to the bed, saying she was going to try and get a bit more sleep.

"That's all I do these days: breastfeed, change diapers, cook up the fastest thing I can, eat, and sleep. Sleep as much as I can." He got up to let her get in, wondering what he was going to do while… "I don't even know how I manage to slip shopping into my schedule! Or doing the laundry."

He walked to the other side of the bed to sit down next to her, as she kept talking.

"I paid a woman to come and do the cleaning in the first weeks, but after a month without news from you… I had to start saving, so I let her go."

"Do you want me to contact her to start coming again?" He asked in Portuguese.

She turned around in bed to look at him and smiled. For the first time since his return, she smiled at him. Not one of her big, thankful smiles but… it was a start!

"Yes, thank you. That would be nice."

As her smile grew, she held out a hand to caress his face. He should have made the effort to speak in Portuguese from the start.

"But there's time," she said. "Do you… do you want to keep me company?"

Hell, yeah! He was going to speak Portuguese non-stop for the next days. He'd speak Portuguese till she was completely over her hurt feelings. He took off his shoes and lay behind her, over the covers. She held on to his arms with all her strength when he embraced her.

"I missed you so much," she murmured to no one in particular.

"Hush, mi Nesita," the name slid off intensely. "I'm here now. I ain't ever leavin' ya again. Never. I'll keep ya safe with me forever. Promise. I'll keep ya both safe."

She turned over under the covers and pulled him down to a kiss. It started as just a peck, almost chaste, and before he knew it they were both kissing frantically, her fingers boring into his neck, pulling his hair, his hands getting rid of the covers separating th…

"OW!"

Creed jumped back. What now?

"Careful, love," she grimaced, massaging her breasts gently. "These girls are way too sensitive these days."

Oh. Ok.

He wondered if that was the end of it, but Isabel lay down with an inviting smile and he got up, undressed and joined her under the covers. She still had her nightdress on, but the buttons were all undone, so he peeled the flaps to the side to expose her breasts and he kissed them gently, almost reverently. She moaned and put her hand on his head. Curious, he sucked softly. Nothing. He sucked a bit harder and milk filled his mouth. It was warm and sweet. Real sweet. Sweeter than anything he'd tasted, but it wasn't a sugary…

"Is it good?"

He looked up, licking his lips.

"Does it taste nice?"

"It's sweet," he said in English, too enthralled in the experience to remember his decision.

Her smile faded a bit. In a moment of impulse, he suckled a bit more then kissed her.

"Can ya taste its sweetness?"

She giggled and nodded.

"I ain't never tasted anythin' this sweet," he insisted.

"That's me: all sweetness."

"Ya smell sweet, too." She frowned. "It's true. Yer scent's incredibly sweet. Maybe I should start callin' ya my sweet Nesi. It's got a nice ring ta it, wouldn't ya say so?"

"Sweet Nesi," she echoed in English. It was the first time she spoke in English since his return and it reminded him of his decision.

"Mi dulce Nesita," he translated to Spanish while trying to remember the Portuguese word for sweet.

"Oh, give me a break, love," she grimaced, back to Portuguese. "I hate the name Dulce. I can live with 'sweet Nesi' but not Dulce."

Fine, no problem.

"I ain't ever callin' ya that again," he said in English. "My sweet, sweet Nesi."

She giggled and Creed felt like everything was going back to normal. He nuzzled her neck, where the scent was stronger, and breathed in hard, kissed her softly. Isabel turned on her side, her back nestling against his chest, and he embraced her, careful not to touch her breasts.

He had never even realised how much he'd missed this, snuggling in bed with the woman, till now. Eyes shut close, Creed recognised he was happy. His woman back in his arms and his baby girl a step away, surrounded by soothing sweetness.

He felt the woman slip into a relaxed slumber in his arms. A car honked outside, maybe a neighbour on their way home to have lunch, but nothing stirred inside the bedroom.

Time ticked away.

It had been the urgency to find answers that had taken him away; and it had been the hunt for his memories that had kept him away. The moment he'd gotten his memories back, enlightening and bleak, he'd had no reason to fight against the urge to return. He'd been empty and bitter, but he'd come back. He hadn't even had any plans beyond that. During the flight, the twisted thought of plucking out the girl's claws, getting rid of them, had popped inside his brain. But if she had a healing factor, the things would simply grow back and he wouldn't have been able to do so anyway. To cause such pain to his baby girl, his own flesh and blood… He'd sooner rip his own entrails than hurt his daughter in any way.

Maybe his father had never chained him in a basement… the old cabin hadn't even had one! Maybe he'd never pulled out fangs and claws, the way Weapon X had twisted his memories into reality. Those implanted memories still felt like real memories, though. And the pain of his fangs and claws being wrenched out of his body, leaving him broken and defenseless… Even if it had never happened, it still felt real to him.

Slowly, he undid the embrace and slid out of the bed. He approached the crib and looked down at his daughter.

"I'll keep ya safe," he said hoarsely. "There's no one, absolutely no one, ever gonna hurt ya. I'll make sure o' that. There's no one ever gonna lay a finger on ya. There's no one ever gonna… Ya mark my words, girl, 'cause I'm gonna make sure ya'll have everythin' I never had an' that means ya're gonna be happy, ya hear? From day one. And you ain't ever gonna have no reason t'be afraid. Ever."

She moaned in her sleep and Creed growled.

"Those damn claws can go ta hell. Ya're mine. All mine. An' there's _no one_ ever gonna take ya away from me. Claws or no claws. Ya're mine."

She whimpered awake and he picked her up from the crib, snuggled her in the crook of his arm.

"Hush, my lil' Victoria. It's Pappa. Ya're safe. Hush."

But she started crying instead. Why didn't she understand? Why didn't her instincts…

"Victor."

He looked at Isabel, sitting up in bed and the complaint just came out, powerless.

"I just wanna hold her but…" he held her tighter against his body. Why didn't she understand?

"Come here, Victor, please."

He went and sat beside her, then proceeded to give her the crying baby but she stopped him.

"That's quite enough, my love," she whispered to the child, kissing her head, then she started singing softly.

Isabel slid closer to him and he ended up putting an arm over her shoulders. Then she leaned her head against his chest, caressing the crying child while singing. The child soothed a bit, but didn't calm down completely. Once the song was finished, Isabel corrected the way he was holding the baby, so she'd be a bit more vertical, then she clapped her hands, surprising the child. For once, the crying ceased completely. Isabel's fingers started climbing up her little body, tickling her. Creed was almost afraid to breathe as his baby girl laughed in his arm. When the tickling game was over, the child remained quietly in the crook of his arm, the other one still over his Nesi's shoulders, as she rested her head against his chest with a relieved sigh.

This was happiness, he decided. And he was never letting go of it.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	41. Alentejo: A Blessing in Disguise

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **41\. Alentejo: A Blessing in Disguise**

Creed looked at his daughter from a distance as Isabel had a shower. He didn't want to get too close and have her start crying again. Getting his daughter to know and trust him would take patience. Then, as he heard the woman start getting dressed, he went to the kitchen and heated up some leftover. Stewed beef with potatoes. It was almost hot when she joined him, putting the baby monitor on the table.

They ate in silence for a while, until Isabel cleared her throat.

"Why did you buy the Lisbon flat?"

Why was she asking that? She was supposed to be happy about it, not question it. Did it mean she hadn't liked it? Maybe he should act like it was no big deal.

"Ya liked the neighbourhood," he shrugged. "Figured ya'd wanna maintain a connection. Since I was gonna get ya some real estate ta make money off, I guessed ya'd like that one in particular. It don't mean nuthin', really. Anyway I didn't buy the flat; I bought the whole building. I mean, it's undergoin'; I only kicked off the process this morning. Ya never buy just a fraction of a buildin'; ya gotta own over half of it in the very least."

"But there are people living there!"

"So? I ain't kickin' 'em out. They get the money o' the sale, an' they get t' use their flats fer as long as they live. Believe me: people never think twice 'bout gettin' a load o' money fer as long as they can keep on livin' in the same place. I secure the ownership fer myself, an' then I just gotta wait while they die out one by one. In this case, the only flat that matters was the one we lived in, so it don't even make no nevermind when the other geezers die. It's just a way o' makin' sure no one else has control over the buildin'. That's all."

Isabel nodded and ate in silence for a bit longer. She could at least have given him a hint if she was happy about it or not.

"If the objective is to make money, then we should invest in a beach house. In Algarve."

Good sign, here. She at least liked the getting real estate part. He thought his answer carefully.

"It ain't 'bout 'we'; it's about _you_. I'll buy ya a beach house in Algarve, if that's what ya want. But if yer worry is money, the New York office block will have ya more than settled."

"Right. Maybe it's not important then…"

She fell silent again, and Creed got a sudden bright idea. Maybe she'd be happy if she thought he wanted to have both houses, too. As in, he wanted to keep the memory of where they'd lived. Women are suckers for romantic stuff like that. He might not give a shit about the Lisbon place, but he could be honest about the Alentejo house.

"Look, I'm gettin' ya the Lisbon house 'cause ya liked the neighbourhood and I wanna make sure ya'll be able t'go there and… and relive your memories of… uh… you know, singin' an' the… dancin'… stuff like that. An' this house… this is where Victoria was born. I don't want it in anyone else's hands. I'd have taken it off the market myself but I figured ya'd want it fer yerself so I'm puttin' it under yer name. But if ya wanna have a house elsewhere, just choose one and I'll get it fer ya. Or… or wait till the office block is in yer hands so ya can buy it yerself. It makes no nevermind."

She nodded and didn't even have decency to say anything. He was pouring out his heart and she just nodded! Pretty cold on her side. To make it worse, the woman wasn't usually this silent. Did it mean she was still not over her anger? He had thought she was. At least almost over it. If she was still mad, then it would be a bad move on his side to mention leaving but… he was dying to leave. The accumulation of scents in the house made it feel safe and comfortable, true, but it was also stiffling with the remembrance of his… sudden departure, three months ago. It was oppressive with the woman's resentment. He wanted to take her away to a place where they could start over with a clean slate.

"Listen… I'm takin' ya both back t' Canada."

She nodded with a 'naturally' kind of expression that sent a wave of relief over him. No drama, then.

"When are you thinking about us leaving?"

This was way easier than he'd expected.

"Uh… As soon as ya pack some bags and I buy the tickets?"

"No."

She said it matter of factly, although with a light frown.

"First of all, she's too little. I'm not putting her on a plane at three months of age. Is there a particular urgency to have us go this suddenly?"

He shook his head in a negative as he thought over her point. It made sense. He had flown with crying babies before and it now occurred to him that the crying might be motivated by discomfort or sensibility to the air pression and stuff like that, rather than general brattiness.

"Secondly, Lilia must be baptised. After I registered her, I talked to the priest who married us, in Lisbon. She was only two weeks at the time and I was still convinced you'd be back soon, so…"

Creed looked to the side. When was she going to let it drop? He didn't need reminding he'd fucked up.

"Anyway, I talked to the priest and he talked to his friend at the Sanctuary of Fatima. He managed to get her a spot for May 10."

That was soon enough.

"Sounds fine by me."

"Yes, but the priest wants to talk to you so you have some more lessons to prepare you for the baptism."

Creed shrugged. He'd been through the conversion grill for five weeks in order to get catholically married. How much worse could these other lessons turn out to be when the cerimony was just three weeks away?

"As for Canada… Where are you taking us to?"

That got him stomped. He hadn't thought about it. At all.

"Uh… Southern British Columbia." That's where he had planned to stash the woman before she got pregnant. "It's the warmest area o' Canada. Ya get warm summers, mild winters, and… there's tons o' fruit orchards. They even grow vineyards in the area."

Her gaze fell sharply on him and Creed focused on what little was left of his food.

"Have you bought a house for us yet?"

If he said no, she'd get pissed. If he said yes, she'd ask for details he didn't have. It was one of those lose-lose situations. Unless…

"I thought ya might wanna… uh… have the last word on that. Ya know… uh… I can pick a list o' properties and houses an' then ya choose yer favourite."

Nice and smooth. Good quick thinking.

"Hmm. So you don't have a list yet."

Shit. Now what?

"Uh… I wanted t' make sure ya approved o' the area first."

"Oh," she didn't sound convinced and Creed had finished the last spot of food so he didn't have any more excuses to avoid her gaze. "If that area is the warmest in Canada, then I like the idea. Where is it exactly?"

Huh? He frowned at her.

"Where is what?"

"The area you said," she insisted before bringing up a mangled English pronunciation. "Soud and British Clambia."

What kind of question was that?

"It's the south part of the Canadian province of British Columbia." The woman was looking at him as if it meant absolutely nothing to her. "Why don't I get ya a map?"

"Great idea," she finally smiled. "I'll clear the table while you get it."

Creed got his tablet, but its battery had died over the three months so he had to hunt for the charger. Shortly after he found it, Isabel joined him in the bedroom and sat on the bed. He flopped next to her.

"This is British Columbia, and this right here is the area I'm talking about. This is the Kootenay Rockies region and this is the Thompson Okanagan one. Ya got plenty o' valleys with really mild weather everywhere. The Okanagan Valley itself is very dry. Especially the South. If we stick around here, we'll either go to North Okanagan, to Lake Country or Boundary Country. The Kootenay region is less touristy and less dry, so it's probably a better option. Ya got both mountains and towns, plus plenty of wet areas. It's quieter, it's got a better balance o' cities and wilderness, ya got plenty o'fruit orchards, vineyards, farmin' in general; ya got fish, 'cause there's plenty o' streams and lakes; ya never gotta worry 'bout too little rainfall; ya got mild winters, nice and hot summers… What d'you say?"

She smirked.

"You prefer this Kootenay region, right?"

"Only 'cause it's more balanced overall. Ya got more of everythin' ya may want."

"Okay," she sighed. "Kootenay. This looks like it's a big region."

Creed laughed. Bigger than Portugal. As in much bigger.

"Well, have you got less big areas in mind?"

"That'll depend on what properties they have fer sale. I'll be lookin' fer places near an average sized town, in a warm valley, but close to forested terrain."

She frowned.

"Properties?" He nodded, trying to guess what might be displeasing in that. He couldn't imagine anything. "So… it's not a house. You're not buying a house; you're buying a property and then building the house. Right?"

"Some properties have cabins included." Wait, she didn't like cabins. "Cabins of all sizes, I mean. From the small to the two-storey ones. Like regular houses but… uh… with a cabin-like architecture."

"Oh," was that an undertone of disappointment? "So you'll be looking for a property that already has a house."

He got it!

"It makes no nevermind. Either way, I was thinkin' I'd like t'have my house custom-made. Ya know, I'd like t' design it myself and all that. Wouldn't ya like ta make yer own house?"

Isabel smiled and Creed patted himself on the back. He'd been spot on.

"Tell ya what, why don't _you_ design yer own dream-house? I only got a few, tiny specifics I wanna see in my house, so it'll be an easy matter fer _you_ to add 'em in to _your_ plans. What d'ya say?"

The woman smirked and said she liked the idea.

"But, Victor, with buying a property and then designing and building a house… How long will that take? One year?"

"It'll be fast. I… uh…" Problem. "Uh… I'll have t'visit the place a couple times. Before I actually buy the property an' then t' make sure the construction is goin' accordin' to plan and all that."

Isabel shrugged a 'obviously' and started approaching the map.

"These lakes are so strange! They look like extra fat rivers."

"D'ya wanna stick around 'em?"

"Maybe," she shrugged. "Are there river beaches? It's better than nothing."

"Sure there are! An' lakes get ta be much warmer than the ocean, too. There's tons o' places ya can swim in. Oh, an' there's hot springs, too. I told ya: ya can't go wrong wi' the Kootenays."

The woman's nod was more definitive this time. She also yawned, though. He shouldn't be keeping her up for so long.

"Ok. So… how long did you say till the house is ready? If it's in winter, I think it'll be best to delay our departure. I'm not going to have Lilia undergo that big of a temperature shock."

She had a point. Very good point.

"If the house ain't ready by the end o' September, max, we'll delay the move till next spring."

But it would be ready. He'd make sure of it.

"By the way, I'm going on a pilgrimage to Fatima in June. Can I count on you to give me support?"

"Pilgrimage?"

She looked him straight in the eye and he got a feeling she was testing him.

"Yes. I made a promise that I'd go to the Sanctuary of Fatima on foot."

He hesitated. His first thought was that she was saying it just to test his reaction, but he coldn't smell a lie on her and she was religious enough that she might really want to do it. Even if it was a stupid thing to do! She could get run over, and where was she going to leave the baby? She berated him for leaving, and then she planned to do the exact same thing to her daughter.

"It's dangerous," he ended up saying. "Why don't ya just drive there?"

"I'm not asking for your permission, Victor. I don't need anyone's permisison to live my life the way I want to. Especially not _your_ permission. I'm simply informing you of something that's going to happen. If you want to be a part of it, great; if not, who cares? Definitely not me."

He snarled and she grabbed the tablet, gave it to him.

"You need to understand one thing: the time when you could order me around is gone. You lost any right to criticise whatever I choose to do. I don't even recognise you the right to _comment_ my decisions anymore. I may tolerate it if I'm in a good mood, but it ends there. You have your… let's call it career. You have your career, your past, your enemies… that is none of my business and I have no right to meddle. Likewise, how I organise my life, with my friends, shopping, even getting a job if I so decide, none of that is up to discussion with you. The only thing that's open to discussion are decisions concerning our daughter, but you _will_ keep in mind that I know best when it comes to dealing with a life as part of a community."

Creed felt numb.

"But this affects Victoria! How will ya take care of her if ya're walkin' herself dead tired fer hours?"

"I'll take care of her the same way I did when you were gone," she sneered. "With love and sacrifice. A lot of sacrifice. Besides, I'll start from Valinhos, which is about four kilometers from the Sanctuary. Such a long, dangerous journey indeed! I'll start very early in the morning, shortly after sunrise, when it's cool, and she will go with me, because I promised I'd do that route holding her in my arms. It shouldn't take longer than one hour or one hour and a half."

She got up from the bed and Creed growled at himself. She had been testing him and he had just wasted all his hard work that day to get her happy.

"I am going back to Canada with you because I promised I'd stay by your side and I have every intention of keeping that promise, despite what you did to me. I…" She took a deep breath, resolutely. "I still want to be your Nesi. I still love you, as much as I wish I didn't. But you ever abandon me like that again, Victor… I've got limits. I promise you. As I stand here before you, Victor Creed, I promise you I will not forgive you if you ever abandon me again. And you know I keep my promises. Promises are something to be kept no matter what, whether it's a promise of sacrifice, as all promises to Fatima are, or something else altogether. People who don't uphold their promises deserve no respect."

"I keep my promises!" He nearly shouted then glanced at the crib and lowered his voice. "I keep my promises. I said I'd keep ya both safe and I did. I'll always keep ya both safe."

"Good," she shrugged dismissively. "I expect you to. Things would be much worse if I had lost my faith in you that completely."

He snarled. She was taking it too far and it was not fair. He was doing everything he could to make up for his mistake. Why didn't she see that? Growling, he closed his fists tight against the fury burning in his veins and walked out. It was not fair! He got to the yard and kicked a stone, punched the wooden fence that led to the field to the left of the house, up a couple of stone steps. He punched it so hard, he broke its hinches and it fell over with a loud crash.

Damn it all to hell!

* * *

Isabel breathed out the tension she was feeling. That stupid man deserved to hear double and triple of what she'd been dishing, but she had to hold back. She wasn't blind. She could see he was trying to do things that made her happy, that he was trying to make up for it. Had it ever occurred to him that sorry goes a long way?

The problem was that she realised he must feel rewarded for his efforts. He was like a little child that had never been told off and would always feel that a strong telling off was disproportional to his wrong and, therefore, unfair. She should know. She had been much the same as a child. She still remembered some situations. Like the time she had nearly cut off her foot with her grandpa's sickle. It had been just a little accident! Now she could see how bad it had been, but at the time she had simply resented all the mayhem around her. Only she had been ten; Victor was… over 100. There was a slight difference. She had grown up; he hadn't. Well, best to give him a little bone to keep him motivated on his path to becoming a responsible, grown-up man.

She went outside and held back a smirk. He was sitting on the steps that led to the backyard, very obviously sulking, and had glanced away from her the moment she'd come out. He really was just a big kid, wasn't he?

"Hey," she called mildly. "Can you do me a favour?"

He looked at her, suspicious.

"I wanted more baby cream for diaper rashes. Could you please get me some from the pharmacy?"

He narrowed his eyes.

"Ya need what?"

"Diapers can cause skin irritations; you put cream on the little bottom to prevent it. Can you get it for me?"

"Sure," he got up, sulking frown gone. "How much d'ya need?"

She gave him a paper box.

"Two of these, please."

She felt the urge to take it further. When he took the box, she held his wrist.

"Hold me."

He hesitated in surprise but then grabbed her ferociously, almost desperately. She let herself stay in his strong embrace for a bit, savouring, hoping he'd listen. Then she got on the tips of her toes and whispered in his ear.

"Can you do me another favour?"

"Sure," he said, elated, eager.

"When you come back, can you please hold me like this again, and then whisper something in my ear. Just once. Just hold me, say it and keep on holding me. Please."

"What?" He whispered back.

"Sorry." She felt him stiffen and she snaked one arm around his waist, tightly. "Say it just once, please. That you're sorry. Just once."

They remained in silence for a few more minutes. Isabel closed her eyes and enjoyed listening to his heart beat, the steady rocking of his chest as he breathed. But her feet were getting tired of being on the tip of her toes, so she kissed his neck and left his embrace.

"Do you need money?" She smiled, as if she hadn't asked him any special favour at all.

Get a hint, she told him in her mind. You don't have to start off by looking me in the eyes and apologising. You can do it guiltly. It's a first step. Once he realised it's not that painful to apologise, then he could progress to saying it to her face. But for now, just… she really hoped he took that hint.

"Oh, by the way. I told everyone that you had been called out to help fix a big crisis at this big company somewhere. I explained that your job deals with a lot of sensitive information, involving corporate espionage and stuff like that, so you have strict confidential sort of missions and can't tell any details. I said that you were staying overseas for as long as the crisis was on-going. I think some people may be thinking that this company is related to the Registration Act and the Initiative in the US. I mentioned it's more likely to be an Asian company, due to the times you phoned me, but you might want to drop some unasked for references to jet lag and… I don't know, stuff that will lead people to believe you were in the Far East rather than the US."

"Ok," he said. Not looking at her. "I'll get goin', then."

She watched him go. Please, take that hint.

As she went back to her bedroom and stopped by the crib, she heard his jeep leaving. She breathed out.

"You know, my love," she whispered to the sleeping child. "I'm starting to think this has all been a blessing in disguise. If your father stops thinking he has a right to order me around… if he stops thinking I'm something he owns and if he finally recognises I have a will and a right to my own decisions… Don't take me wrong; I love him, despite everything he is, but I am not going back to having to calculate each step I want to take to make sure it matches what he wants. I want to be free to do as I see fit, and these three months just got me that. There's no way I'm going to let your father drag me back to the way he controlled my life. And that's something that will come very handy to you, too, once you grow up."

Isabel went to bed and lay down. She closed her eyes but didn't feel sleepiness take her over, as it usually did.

Well, if she really had to go to Canada, then at least she was going to have a house just the way she wanted. She smiled. How large was the property he was going to buy? She'd like to have a little orchard herself and a garden, too. Did roses grow naturally in Canada? She had no idea. She'd also have a playground area for Lilia and her little friends… maybe with a child sized doll house! She'd have a music room, too. She'd always wanted to have one. Maybe she should add a gym room, where she could do exercise and Victor could have his punch bag and stuff. A big kitchen with two large windows so she'd have plenty of natural light. A big kitchen table and a long counter, too. A wood oven to bake traditional bread. What else?

Hmm… Her house was not going to look like a cabin, no matter what Victor said. It would look the way every house should look: solid masonry walls painted in white. She'd have a small yard, with a bench and a vine covered trellis, facing south. Oh, and the garage would not be part of the building, the way it was in his Wasau house. No, no. If the property was on a steep hill, they could have a basement-garage, otherwise, the garage would be built separately from the house.

Hmm. The only problem was that the man liked cabins. Ha, that was it! She'd have a traditional-looking cabin built within the property just for him. He could use it as a shed or as a… a… oh, hunting house! Yes. He could keep his guns there, and his hunting trophies, and… He could use it to tan hides. If it was big enough, he could also invite his buddies to watch sport on TV and drink beer in comfort while far from meddling women. Of course, she'd have to guide him into making those 'buddies' first. How the man had managed to live his life without friends was something that blew her mind. Or maybe he'd prefer not to share his hunting cabin. Better not to press him too much in exchange for her own freedom of movement.

Yes, it really had been a blessing in disguise. And she really wasn't sleepy. She might as well get up and do some laundry. Then, if she still didn't feel sleepy, she could get some paper and start drawing her first plans.

Victor had been dodgy, talking about the place where he wanted to buy the property. She was sure he already had a specific place in mind, but wanted to give her the illusion she could choose. That's why he was confident the house would be ready in a matter of months. He must have a deal about to go through and was planning on the fastest possible building. Probably a two bedroom house with a kitchen connected to a dining room, all made of wood and logs. Well, if that was his plan, he was going to get sorely disappointed. She was going to have a proper house with everything she had ever wanted. She hoped he hadn't bought the property yet, though. It would probably be lost in the middle of nowhere, about an hour away from any other house through winding dirt roads.

Singing a cheerful song while putting the dirty clothes in the washing machine, Isabel smiled. He'd probably give her a list of properties the following day. She wondered if she could keep a horse or two. Maybe she could talk him into it. Horse-riding through the woods sounded like the kind of thing the man might be partial to, and, although she enjoyed a good hike, she'd rather ride a horse for hours than walk. Horses carry your food, on top of it, which made the whole thing much more appealing.

Lilia's voice came through the baby monitor, which she had put on the machine, but she was just babbling distractedly.

"Mamma is just finishing this, my love," she said even if the baby could not hear her.

Which reminded her: a carriage bed pulled by two rocking horses. She would let him cover the walls in forested landscapes again. It had turned out pretty, after all. And the ceiling would have the stars and the moon-lamp, too. Maybe they could have the landscape customised so as to have one part open up into green fields with a river in the distance and horses playing around. Hmm… Isabel could have a wall with a fitted closet, floor to ceiling. The bed would rest against the open field wall and the changing table would be by the trees. Later on, it would be swapped by a desk so little Lilia could do her homework and have her school books. It might just work.

The baby prattle became grumpy as Victor's jeep returned. She switched on the machine.

"Going, my love!"

She picked the child up with a wide smile and a cheerful song.

"Oh, you need a clean diaper, do you? No wonder you were getting grumpy."

The front door opened.

"Let's see if your pappa wants to change it, huh?" She whispered before raising her voice: "Welcome back, love! Just on time!"

He entered the bedroom with a suspicious frown and Isabel nearly laughed at the way the frown turned to unease at her wide smile. Isabel got the bag with the cream and told him to get a diaper from the bag next to crib.

"Do you want to change her diaper?" She asked while putting the two boxes next to the other two in the drawer.

"Yeah, sure."

That was unexpected. When she turned around he was already trying to figure out how to peel the baby out of her clothes. Unfortunately for him, little Lilia wasn't having none of that and kicked and fussed, quickly veering into a threat of tearless wailing.

"Let me show you how it's done," she said, while getting her changing pad.

"I don't need ya t'tell me how t'change my own daughter's diaper," he growled. "It ain't rocket science."

Isabel kissed his arm.

"The problem isn't so much how to change the diaper, love. It's everything else that's involved. For example, I prefer to use water rather than wipes so, first of all, it's best if we prepare some warm water. Can you get it for me?"

He stepped aside, sulkily, and did as requested.

"Now, is that any way for you to welcome your pappa, Lilia Victoria? I think not. Oh, so now you laugh, do you? What a shame! You better start behaving, young lady, because your pappa is not going to put up with that behaviour, you hear? He will change your diaper and you will thank him for it with a big, big smile. Won't you? Yes, you will."

Isabel smiled at Victor when he came back. The sulk was gone and his eyes were intent on her every gesture.

"She loves being talked to," she said. "First thing to keep in mind is to close these sticky tabs. It won't be nice if they get stuck to her skin."

"Got it," he said attentive and serious.

This was Victor Creed at his best. This was the man Isabel felt blessed for loving. She couldn't help but pray gratefully through the diaper explanation. Thank you, Virgin Mary, Holy Mother, for bringing him back pliable and ready to accept me as his equal, rather than his property without rights. Thank you even for those three month she'd suffered through, alone and scared. If they had been the price to pay for the transformation, then she'd celebrate the sacrifice rather than resent it. And she'd protect her newly recovered rights with all she was worth.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	42. Creston: Settling Down

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 _Creston is a real town, tucked away in a lovely valley between towering mountains in the Kootenay region, Southern British Columbia. Naturally, Earth-616 is not the same as our RL Earth, which means my depictions of Creston will have similarities with reality, but also lots of differences. If any of my readers knows the area, feel free to drop me a comment on how different Earth-606 Creston is from the reality they know and, surely, love._

 _Have fun!_

* * *

 **42\. Creston: Settling Down**

The house had been built in record time.

"All it takes," Victor had told her over the phone, on one of his many trips to Canada to oversee the construction, "is enough money t' get the right contractors workin' on the same project around the clock, 'stead o' workin' on several homes at the same time."

Facing southwest and sporting a large fenced yard on each side, it was not exactly the way Isabel had pictured it. However, as Victor had explained, Portugal and Canada have different weather, different terrains, and different building traditions. Besides, he also had specific security measures that must be implemented, including walls resistant to impacts and explosions as well as metal shutters that could be closed either electrically or manually (just in case of attack). So she had ended up with a two story house, much to her annoyance, but the music room was far bigger than she had dreamed. Every room was bigger than she'd envisioned.

Isabel had arrived on the first day of Fall. Once Victor had realised that allowing a baby to share the same poorly vented air as tens of people in a commercial airplane wasn't the healthiest option, he'd chartered a private jet.

"You're spending money at a scary rate," she'd commented through the flight.

Buying houses in Portugal and extensive properties in Canada, buying jeeps and urban cars, chartering private jets, paying extra to have a huge house built faster than average… How much money did the man have? He'd simply shrugged, though. Isabel had wanted to press him about it, but she guessed this might fall under the 'private business career' category, and she'd readily accepted to be in the dark concerning that part of his life for as long as he didn't meddle in her social life. Because she intended to have a lively social life, no matter what.

During the flight, Isabel had wondered if she shouldn't have fought to remain in Portugal. She was leaving her home country for good and she missed it already. She felt she was in the right mood to hate everything about her new home.

The long drive to Creston wasn't much different. The landscape was alien: the mountains too high, the forests too dark, the towns too wide and sprawled, the fields too large but nevertheless cramped in between menacing peaks everywhere. She could see nothing but negative points. Wisely, she kept her mouth shut and told herself to look at the bright side. This was her new home, after all. So she looked at the world renowned Fall colours determined to at least enjoy those. She found them too bright, though, and hungered for the dull brown and gentle golden of her homeland.

It was a silent journey.

They drove through Creston and followed roads so straight they might have been drawn with a ruler. She missed the narrow winding roads… and to think she had once disliked them! One year in the USA had been enough for her to become irrationally nostalgic for the roads of her youth.

They drove through fields with scattered homes. Large and woody.

They drove past the fields towards the ominous mountains, covered in a mix of harsh rocky outcrops and dark forests. Mt Thompson, Victor had called it, part of the Purcell Mountains.

The sun was falling gently towards the Selkirk Mountains, opposite the Purcell ones, when she first lay eyes on her new house. It was not love at first sight, but she found it was much better looking than most houses she'd seen on the way. The forest was several feet away from the building, which seemed to be very much in the middle of an unnatural clearing in the woods.

Victor stopped the jeep a few hundred feet away and got out, opened the door for her.

"So, what d'ya say?"

She could feel his anxiety.

Looking at the house, some shy golden spots piercing through the dark forest surrounding it, Isabel couldn't say she hated it. She didn't love it, but she definitely didn't hate it.

"I suppose I like it," she sighed.

Definitely, not what the man had wanted to hear. She felt a bit bad for him. He had tried his best to build her dream house… adjusted to the Canadian reality of a God-forsaken hole in middle of the mountains. But he'd tried.

"I'm so tired of all this travelling," she mumbled in Portuguese as the jeep approached the house. "I don't think I could love the most fantastic grand piano."

She wasn't lying. They'd flown and driven for over twelve hours.

"The garage is in the back," he said as he parked in front of the door.

Lilia was asleep in the baby chair so Isabel left the jeep and wandered towards one of the sides, where a white fence defended an empty lot.

"That'll be fer yer plantin' an' stuff." Victor said, coming up behind her. "I don't know nuthin' 'bout gardenin', but I suggest ya plan what ya wanna plant through the winter an' start next spring."

Isabel nodded. Different weather, different methods. She should try to make friends with people who could give her pointers.

"D'ya wanna go inside?"

She followed him in and breathed in at how wide the hall was. For a moment, she felt like she was in a mansion. A freshly built mansion, the smells of paint and construction stuff still heavy in the air. He took her first to the right, through a huge empty room that was to become their living room, and into the music room. The synthesiser seemed tiny against a cork covered wall and she smiled for the first time since she'd left Portugal.

"This room is better than I ever imagined," she said, looking around.

The music room connected with the hall, and he led her into the kitchen, divided into cooking and dining area.

"This is the perfect kitchen," she mumbled as she approached a backdoor… or side-door.

The yard, which was to have an outdoor barbecue, looked empty and sad. She got a sudden mental image and turned to Victor.

"Do you think we can have a big table set up in the middle? We could have a canopy to protect it from the rain and… and do you think we could have trees fencing the yard? Something like a wall of fruit trees and flower bushes."

He shrugged.

"It's yer house. Ya can have whatever ya want."

It squashed her budding excitement. She'd have preferred that he joined in the plans to perfect the house, much like he'd done with the planning. But perhaps she had brought on his uninterest herself, due to her gloomy mood when she'd first seen the house, not to mention throughout the long journey.

She followed him up to the empty rooms that would become bedrooms. Their room was the biggest, including a large balcony, a huge en-suite bathroom and an incredible walk-in closet. She looked around the room while he leaned moodily by the door. She sighed and turned to him.

"Is an empty house," she spoke in English for the first time in months. "And I'm really very tired. But I want wake up early tomorrow and start transform dis in _our_ house. Togeder wid you. I hope you like decoration."

She smirked, hoping it came out more playfully than awkward.

"I _hate_ decoration," he grumbled, "but I got a few ideas when it comes t' furniture."

Isabel felt cold at that and it must have shown in her face because Victor took a step into the room and said 'muebles'. She frowned.

"Ya know, muebles, furniture… uh… beds, chairs, cupboards, closets... Furniture. I was thinkin' we could have the bed right here, see. And a big flat TV over there."

Oh, so he was interested in participating. Isabel smiled in relief.

"A small table and chairs in de… de… varendah?"

"Balcony," he offered. "Sounds good t'me."

Isabel walked up to him.

"You want start plan now? I want have de house ready to inaugurate as fast as possible."

Victor embraced her waist and brought her closer to him.

"There are three furniture stores in Creston. We can check 'em out tomorrow."

* * *

For the first few days, Isabel had purposefully ignored the yards. Instead, she'd focused on populating every room. Lilia would still have two cribs, one in their room and another in hers, and her carriage-bed pulled by two rocking horses had already been ordered. The carriage was to mimic a rustic cart, rather than a fancy frilly princess buggy, and each horse was to look different.

Sofas, cupboards, dining tables and gym equipment had already found their home, and most windows already had their curtains in place. Even cushions and carpets had been bought on the spur of the moment. There were going to be paintings added here and there, but those would be bought later. Isabel was sure Victor would want to have some hunting trophies mounted on walls, much as an uncle of hers had, though his only trophy had been the head of a boar. Not being a fan, she'd speared a pre-emptive attack and asked if he kept the skins of the animals he hunted.

"I love see de skin of de animals, wid all de fur." And it was true, even if she had been thinking of farm animals. "I had one of a goat in my bedroom and my aunt Antónia had sheep skins. I was thinking de skin of a bear could look good in our bedroom."

Victor had beamed at that.

"Ya'll have pelts everywhere ya want. Just name the animal, and I'll hunt an' skin it."

Head trophy danger warded off.

The kitchen had been amidst the priorities. All kitchenware had been bought in a single frenzied morning, at the same time as their bed and the mattress, then thoroughly washed and put away. That had been a lapse in her judgement. She should have bought the dishwasher first.

Appliances had followed the same pattern: one morning of shopping, followed by an afternoon of fitting them in and putting them to good use. Dirty baby clothes had been piling up fast. The washing machine stood side by side with a tumbledryer in the laundry room, which was particularly large in order to accommodate all the sewing paraphernalia Isabel wanted. She had bought a large fridge and a large freezer, independent of eachother. But then Victor had asked her how much meat she figured a large deer would yield.

"Ya'll have t' stash it somewhere an' this will hold a full deer but little else."

So she'd brought a second freezer, and a third one to stash in the pantry. Just in case the man decided to hunt more than just one deer.

Lying on their bed as Victor finished setting up the 85 inch TV, Isabel commented that the huge screen made her feel like she was in the cinema.

"Yeah. Real great, ain't it?"

Isabel sighed. She had discovered Creston's weekly Farmer Market by accident, but hadn't had the time to go there because of the need to finish furnishing the house. Sunday, however, there would be no running around the shops.

"Victor, you are going to continue wid de conversion story?" He looked at her with a frown. "You know, you're going to go to mass and to confession and all dat catolic stuff."

From his expression, he hadn't thought about it at all.

"I'm going to de mass tomorrow," she said. "If you decide you don't want go, I will say dat you are… uh… a catolic not-practising? You have to help me wid de right English expression."

The man grunted and sat on the bed.

"I should keep up that story," he grumbled, not the least interested in doing so.

"I can say we had an emergency in de house and you couldn't go."

He shook his head, decision settling in.

"No. Ya gotta keep consistent if ya wanna have an air-tight cover story."

"I'm going to talk wid de priest after de mass," she warned him. "If are a church choir, I'm going to join."

The man frowned angrily, a light growl rumbling through his chest. She loved that sound! Nevertheless, she ignored it.

"And den I thought we could go to Lena's Place or de Pizza Cafe to have lunch."

"Why the hell are ya gonna join a choir? Ya don't think ya'll be busy enough raisin' yer daughter?"

His mask was starting to crack. He might have held back his urge to control her movements out of guilt, but Isabel had known he'd slip back to his old self eventually, especially now she wasn't in Portugal anymore. She had planned to confront him the moment he attempted any such thing and beat him back into submission so she spit the answer immediately:

"I was part of a choir all my life, Victor, and I have every intention of joining anoder. Discussion is over."

He snarled slightly. This was going to grow into a bigger fight but Isabel was ready for… She had an epiphany.

"Mass and choir," he growled, snarl intensifying, "where does that leave me an' Victoria? Havin' t'go t'diners every blasted day the way we been doin'? Why the hell did ya wanna have a big kitchen if ya ain't even gonna use it?"

"Is a win-win for me," she said, "and a lose-win for you."

"What?"

"I like to have a lot of friends, Victor. Makes me happy. But I also like to know a lot of people, even if dey are not friends. You see, when you have lots of friends and known people, you have a… a web of people dat help you. Is more security."

He frowned and shook his head not following.

"Look, you don't like have friends and all dat, fine. So look at it in de basis of advantages: our daughter is going to grow here. She is going to have friends here. She is going to go to school wid all de kids of Creston. Look me in de eyes and tell me you don't want know as many people as possible. Tell me you don't want have certain who are all de kids Lilia is going to meet and be friends. Tell me you don't want know who are deir parents. Tell me you don't want know who has a history of problems and do everything so dose people never become a threat to our daughter."

The frown didn't go anywhere but his face told her he had never thought about the advantages of being part of a community. She pressed on.

"I know you don't like be wid people, Victor. I know you don't want have friends. Is ok. I am ready to do dat part for de two. I make new friends because is important to have friends. But I also meet as many people as I can. When Lilia goes to school, I want know de majority of teachers and parents personally."

He looked away, the growl having diminished to an aggravated level. She guessed he might be thinking he'd have to join the socialising, much like he'd been forced to do in Portugal. Too much forcing might be bad, though. He might start hating it and grow bitter about it.

"Maybe is best if we have a joke about us."

That had his scowl back on her and Isabel thought her idea for a few seconds, looking for flaws to be corrected.

"Yes, it'll work. Listen, we can have de joke dat we are opposites. Dat I like parties and have lots of friends and dat you were born to be a… a ermit? Is dat de word?"

"Hermit," he confirmed with a snarl of contempt.

"We can make jokes and say dat we're so opposites dat is strange we get along so well, but de fact is dat we are perfect because you teach me to enjoy de quiet and I help you make friends. And is perfect because, one: you don't have to pretend you like be social; two: explains why I make friends very easily and you take a long time to show your more… uh… a bit more friendly side. So, instead of people think dat you are… umm… dat you hate everyone, people think dat you simply prefer be alone and dat you take a long time to show who you really are. Dey will accept you better even if you are not friendly."

He snorted and glared back at the TV. Isabel approached him over the bed.

"I give my best so you don't have to be wid people more dan de absolute necessary," she promised. "And den I make you a report of all de people I discover dat are possibly dangerous."

When he glanced over at her, the aggravation was gone.

"I'm gonna check everyone's background."

"Hun?"

"Every person ya come in contact with, I'll check their background. It's way too easy fer any sociopath or half-witted criminal t' hide their true colours under a mask o' friendliness." He should know, right? And Isabel couldn't help an ironic smirk at the thought. "I'll have a file on every person ya meet. By the time Lilia goes t'school, I should have nearly every kid's family documented."

If that meant he was going to have motivation to meet her new friends and acquaintances, sure. She nodded.

"Sounds perfect."

With any luck, he'd get a liking to making a bit of small talk, he'd meet guys who enjoyed hunting and playing cards, and after a few months the whole absurd plan of having a file for every local would loose steam and become a file for every person with a criminal background. She could appreciate the idea of knowing who the local bad apples were.

"I still don't wanna go t' no diner fer lunch tomorrow," he told her. "Ya went t' the supermarket. Can't ya prepare somethin' in advance an' then we just come back and heat it up? Even if lunch gets a bit delayed."

Isabel sat next to him on the bed edge and leaned on his arm.

"If you really want, ok. But is important dat I go to dose two restaurants frequently, 'mor. In Portugal, people don't welcome every client wid a big smile. Dat is only when you already recognise de clients and you start making conversation. Here, is different. Everywhere I go, people welcome me wid a smile like I'm deir best friend. Is more difficult to see if I am only a client to dem, or if dey really think I'm nice and are interested in be friends. I want go to dose two restaurants as frequently as possible to see where I can make real friends. When one of de people dere start talking to me more like friends and less like a 'catch dat client', den I give up de oder and become loyal to de restaurant where I have de friend."

He shook his head.

"Why go to all that trouble?"

She probably had to explain it in a way he could understand and, above all, validate. Otherwise, he'd keep coming to the topic, grumbling against it over and over again. If she explained that she simply wanted to enter a café or a restaurant and meet someone, an actual friend, genuinely happy to see her walk in for something other than making a buck… he'd never wrap his head around that concept, would he?

"Because you always want have a friend you can trust in a café or diner or similar. Dey can tell you de news, de… rumours?"

"Gossip," he offered. "Why d'ya wanna know any gossip?"

"I already explained dat, Victor!" She'd explained it over and over back in Portugal. It was as if he just didn't want to get it. "Gossip let's you know what is happening in de town, de good and de bad. Anyway, a friend in a café can tell you de gossip, and dey can warn you of things like… like… robberies, or dat de police is doing something or… dey can tell you who de bullies are, and… everything! Is a local source of information and, because dey work in a place wid lots of people, dey know a lot of information."

He breathed out a short lived growl.

"How long is it gonna take ya t'pick one over the other?"

Isabel shrugged.

"Depends on de people who work dere."

He growled anew.

"I'll have 'em checked out, too." He grumbled. "All of the workers at both places. The moment I get the report, ya got exactly one week t'make up yer mind."

Only one week? That didn't give her much time at all.

"Umm… Two weeks?"

"No way! Gettin' background reports can take up t' two weeks, that means ya'll have 'tween two an' three weeks. That's more than enough time."

Oh, she thought it would be faster.

"Ok. You want pizza for tomorrow lunch? Pizza Café has take away."

He growled something that might be an unwilling ok and started going through the TV channels. Isabel sighed and fell back onto the bed.

It was starting to feel like home. It would never be the home she could have in Portugal, thinking about neighbours and food, language and music, parties and celebrations, weather… but it was still starting to feel like home. She glanced at Victor's back and felt a weight on her chest.

She was so glad he had returned. She loved her country, and above all she loved her daughter, but life would have been dreary if she had never seen the man again. She got up and leaned against his back.

"What?" He grumbled, the sound vibrating through that wall of muscle.

"You are way too dressed for the bedroom, love," she said in Portuguese.

He turned around to look her in the eyes.

"I could say the same 'bout ya."

"Then I suggest we fix the problem."

* * *

Creed woke up with a start, body shivering and lungs panting, eyes moist.

"Hey…"

A warm hand touched his back at the same time as the woman's voice broke the silence and he ripped the sheets off him to escape her touch.

"Veetohr?"

"Shut up!" He snapped. "Quit callin' me that!"

Her surprise enfuriated him.

"It's _Victor_!" He snarled. "Victor Creed. Nuthin' else. Got it?"

In his head, a hateful Dog Logan echoed, though.

" _Victor_ Creed," he gnarled viciously at the mocking voices. " _Victor Creed_."

"Ok, Victor," Isabel said carefully. "I don't use de Portuguese pronunciation again. Is fine."

He couldn't take her gaze on him.

"Shut up an' sleep!"

He left before she had time to obey. Still panting of suppressed rage, he left the house and howled to the dark sky. God, how he'd missed this!

All the time he'd spent in Portugal, after his return, he'd been limited to leave their Alentejo house and roam the small, tame pine wood. He'd allowed himself to howl once, but that had sent every dog in the vicinity into such a barking and howling frenzy, some of the neighbours had turned on the lights and investigated what was wrong. It had been freedom, going back to Canada to oversee the house construction.

Isabel had never reached out to him before, though. He had no idea why she had decided to touch him, but it hadn't helped. These nightmares… memories. They were memories of his childhood and youth. Wretched, both. He needed to push them back again, away from his mind. They ate him up alive, every single one of them.

Creed roamed his land for a long time before returning.

He went up the stairs silently and entered the master bedroom. Isabel was asleep again, as was his precious little girl. He approached her crib and smiled at the sleeping figure. She was so perfect… so perfect it almost hurt, if that made any sense. The most perfect, precious thing he had ever had. He wanted to pick her up and hold her tight, kiss her to pieces, but he didn't, obviously. She'd wake up and he wanted to watch her as she slumbered, confident she was safe under her Pappa's care.

A movement on the bed got his attention. Isabel was still asleep, though, even as she turned in bed and sighed.

Creed looked back at his baby girl. Back in Portugal, when he had nightmares, he'd simply go out and then return to watch over his daughter, before finally going back to bed and embracing the woman, kissing her soothingly. He sometimes worried that Isabel hadn't yet made any sexual advances. He couldn't help wondering if she was fully recovered from the birth. He'd looked it up and knew that some women can take months to get their sex drive back and, while that had bothered him initially, the truth was that he didn't really feel the need for sex. Even the other day, when she'd said they were too dressed up for the bedroom, it hadn't gone beyond a short making out session and an hour of cuddling. It was weird for him, but so incredibly amazing. He wanted nothing but to just hold the woman, feeling her heart beating against his chest, feeling her warm breathing against his skin.

This time, however, he didn't want to hold the woman. He could still feel her hand where it had touched his back. He didn't want to feel her touch, he wanted…

He placed a hand over his girl's body, lightly. Then he caressed her little forehead and sat down on the floor, resting his head against the crib. He felt cold and alone, in the dark. The baby's peacefulness and innocence as impossible for him to reach as … No, he didn't want to think about it.

"Ya're gonna be fine," he whispered to his baby girl. "There's no one ever gonna hurt ya, I promise. I'll rip everyone's head off 'fore they even dream o' hurtin' ya."

She'd go through life with that halo of serenity and happiness, if he had any say-so in the matter. The one thing he had never been allowed in his own life: to be untouched by pain and humilliation and… and betrayal. He'd protect her from it all, the way no one had ever bothered to do for him. She deserved it. More than anyone else, _she_ deserved it.

"I promise," he mumbled, weakly.

He meant it. He meant it with all his being and beyond. He would even do the unnatural and die to keep that one promise. Safe and happy. He meant it so badly.

And yet he knew he couldn't keep it. How could anyone keep such a promise? Like everyone else, his little girl was going to grow up and get hurt. Her wishes thwarted, her dreams destroyed. As much as he fought to protect her, he'd always fail.

"I'll keep ya safe."

If there was anyone who was innocent in their world, it was his baby girl. It might change in the future, at least that anxiety often stirred within him, that she might grow up and lose that innocence, become a cruel and vicious child, willing to hurt and betray the way everyone did. Children were no different from adults when it came to cruelty. They might be even worse, in a way.

"Safe and…"

He wanted to say innocent but it wasn't true. He wanted her to be wise about the evil ways of the world and its people, not an innocent naïve dumbass.

"Safe."

That really was the only thing he could promise.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	43. Creston: New Routines

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **43\. Creston: New Routines**

Isabel sat down at the synthetiser, and took a deep breath. The house was almost completely decorated, paintings aside, but she didn't feel like hunting for paintings just yet. She was sick and tired of shopping! Instead, she felt ready to reorganise her life into a relaxing routine.

Today, was to be the first day of that routine. Every afternoon, while Lilia played with her Pappa, she would sit in her music room and slowly start recovering her old repertoire. All of it. She'd been careful to warn Victor of her schedule so he could flee the house rather than get annoyed. Not that he'd ever shown himself annoyed over her playing, not once, but Isabel couldn't help but expect him to get annoyed at listening to her practice.

Instead of diving into her practice, though, Isabel listened to the baby radio.

"Dah!"

It was the first word she'd learnt, the Portuguese for the imperative 'give', and she used it with confident authority.

"What? Ya mean this red doll?"

"Dah!"

"Oh, ya're too far away from Pappa, girl. See? Pappa can't reach ya. Ya gotta come an' get it. Come on, baby. Come t' Pappa!"

"Dah dah!"

"Yeah, that's it baby girl! There ya go."

She laughed and shrieked dah.

Isabel didn't need to see the scene to know Lilia had just thrown the doll away and was laughing cheekily at Pappa. Sometimes she wondered how the man had so much patience to play with the child. If she didn't interrupt them, he could spend hours with her.

"Oh, did the doll run away from my lil' baby?"

"Daa-aaah!"

"Yeah, it did. D'ya want Pappa ta hunt down the run-away doll fer ya, do ya?"

"Daah!"

"Then Pappa'll hunt it down!"

He growled and Lilia laughed shriek after shriek. Isabel got the impression Victor might be eating the girl up rather than hunting the doll.

Oh, but she'd never start playing if she continued glued to the radio! After an hesitation, as Victor roared and Lilia clapped her hands, laughing 'dah dah' ininterruptily, she switched it off. Lilia loved to see Pappa pounce after her toys. Sometimes Isabel believed the baby would learn to pounce before she learnt to walk. She certainly seemed to be already trying to immitate Pappa on that one.

Right: it was time to focus now.

Isabel started warming up with ancient scales and exercises which she knew by heart since she was six while her mind went over the novel routine. Breakfast first thing in the morning. Then Victor would go out and she'd play with the child till mid-morning, when she would let her play quietly alone till she fell asleep. She'd then have time for some quick tidying and fixing lunch. After lunch, Pappa would play with her till she got sleepy while Isabel worked on her music. Victor would go out again while the child napped and Isabel had time to do whatever needed doing. Then there would be dinner, some more playing or whatever, and bed. On Saturday morning, there would be the market, and on Sunday morning Mass and choir. This routine didn't include regular drives into Creston for one reason: Victor.

He was still bent on having her as buried in the house as possible. Not that he said it out loud, but the way he sneaked out to the shops every single day before anything in the pantry had the chance to run out said enough. Isabel had decided not to oppose him forcefully. In fact, she even praised his daily shopping… but insisted he checked with her which brands she wanted. He'd grow tired of it eventually. If his obsession didn't wear off, then she'd give him hell. In the meantime, she would use the fact she rarely left to get him to participate in a very important event in her new routine: Friday evening outings. Or any other day! But one day a week, he would take her out to eat.

Her fingers being properly warmed up, Isabel decided to start with Beethoven. She could play about a dozen of his pieces by heart and she wanted to make sure she still remembered them accurately. Otherwise, she'd have to go shopping for music scores.

Isabel breathed in and cleared her mind, focused on Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. She reviewed the piece mentally, then she started playing it. She barely needed to think: muscle memory led her fingers from key to key at just the right speed and she went through the piece with a smile of satisfaction. Then she moved on to Fur Elise, the first Beethoven piece she'd learnt, and continued with the Ninth Simphony, Pathetique and Appassionata. They weren't all beginner pieces, but she'd played them so often that they gave her no challenge, besides remembering the entire pieces faultlessly. If her teacher could see her now, she'd tell her off. She should have the scores in front of her rather than relying on nothing but her memory.

Once she'd finished, Isabel felt refreshed. She switched on the radio and heard Lilia babbling strings of very concentrated yah-dah-dah, Victor's voice coming up occasionally.

"That's a smart lil' lamb, ain't it? What's the wolf gonna say now, huh? Here, let Pappa turn the page so we can find out."

Smiling, Isabel switched off the radio again. She felt like singing now so she started warming up her voice. By the time the warm up had reached its end, she'd decided to go into Italian.

She started playing again, a simple melody.

"Quando sono solo e sogno all'orizzonte mancan le parole," she sang softly.

Happy with her new life, she let her voice flow, freer and higher, up into the choir, savouring the harmony of the melody and not a single worry.

"Con te partirò

paesi che

non ho mai

veduto e viss…"

Isabel interrupted herself abruptly when she heard Lilia's complaining. She was right there at the door, in her Pappa's arms.

"Whatchya fussin' 'bout?" He asked her with a frown, but she was already settling down again, even if she was still frowning and voicing displeasure.

Isabel breathed out, frustrated.

"Is because of me. She doesn't like when I sing high."

Victor put the grumbling child on the floor and sat next to Isabel. The girl sat down too but grumbled and whined, arms out-stretched for Pappa.

"Yeah, I know, ya're gettin' sleepy and everything's an excuse fer cryin'. Com'on, girl, get over yerself an' come t' Pappa, come."

Isabel started playing Moonlight Sonata again. It was quiet and soothing, and Lilia had been rocked to sleep with music since the first day. The girl whimpered a couple more times and stuck a hand in her mouth.

"Heightened hearin'," Victor explained, his eyes smiling at the pouting baby. "That's why she don't like loud sounds. It takes some gettin' used to… an' noisy places like clubs an' stuff usually need some resistance t'pain, too."

Isabel stopped playing as a sudden memory flashed through her mind. The memory of that night in Lisbon, over a year ago, when he'd asked her to sing but to do so… what had been the expression? No need to wake the dead.

"You don't like when I sing high too," she forgot to check the disappointment.

"I ain't a baby, woman," his voice hardened, "I'm more than used ta _loud_ sounds."

"But you still prefer dat I don't sing loud, right?"

She looked at him with a frown and he shrugged.

"Fer as long as ya ain't screamin' next ta me."

No waking the dead near him. Isabel sighed.

"Quit poutin' an' com'ere t'Pappa, girl. Com'on." He called her with his hands and Lilia complained some more, kicked her legs about. "I didn't know ya could sing in Italian, and lyrical on top of it."

Isabel's turn to shrug.

"It showcases yer voice very nicely. Com'on, girl, that's it!"

Frowning at the unexpected compliment, Isabel looked at Victor, leaning down to pick the child who was crawling towards Pappa while still complaining in her baby gibberish.

"It shows how powerful and beautiful it is, don't it, Victoria? Yeah, it does. Ya got the Mamma wi'the prettiest voice around, ya lucky girl, don't ya?"

Feeling awkward at the praise, Isabel shrugged harder.

"My music teacher was Austriack…"

"Austrian."

"Isso. She preferred sing in German but I took a long time to learn songs in German, so she chose Italian songs for me. She loved Pavarotti and Andrea Bocelli, and she chose a lot of songs dey sang. I sang a lot of duets wid her, you know. She was a soprano and I'm a contralto, so she usually sang the feminine part and I sang de masculine... But my voice is nothing compared wid her!"

"Contralto… those are the ones who sing lower tones or somethin', right?" Isabel nodded. "I doubt I'd like yer teacher's voice. I prefer contraltos. High pitches ain't fer me."

Isabel smiled and glanced at him, but he was gazing at her with a hard, serious expression. Not the look one expects to accompany praise. Her gaze slid down to Lilia, eyes sleepily open but her little body relaxedly limp. The awkwardness in her spirit gave way to nostalgia and sadness.

"She had a very sad life."

He didn't give a single sign of interest but the sadness of the woman's life was growing inside her and she felt the need to make him realise all its tragedy.

"She had de possibility to be a famous singer in Austria, but she met her husband… he was Portuguese. She met him and she fell in love and… she abandoned everything to come wid him to Portugal. She worked as a singer in Lisbon, at first, but den she had a baby and… she stopped working. She gave music classes but not official, you know? So she didn't have to pay taxes. Very sad, isn't it? Abandon an entire life for love."

Isabel sighed as she remembered the woman's home, eternally immaculate. She had been a childless widow for a few years when Isabel had started studying under her. Her only child had died very young and her husband hadn't lasted much longer either. A facial expression that showed no emotion at all, and a voice that was pure emotion. Alone amidst strangers that could never understand her native coldness. All because of love.

"I always said dat I would never do dat: abandon everything to go after a man. And now look at me! Never say never, hun?"

"Don't be stupid, woman. Ya didn't abandon nuthin', an' much less fer love. I mean, ya got kidnapped, fer cryin' out loud. Ya got taken away from yer original life an' family. And if ya're talkin' 'bout leavin' Portugal now, ya didn't choose ta leave, either. I forced ya."

She looked up at his frown and wondered whether to let him think he was right.

"Victor… Imagine for a moment dat I wasn't pregnant. Imagine…" She had to put it in the right way. "Imagine dat you didn't want to live wid me. Dat you wanted me to be your woman, but dat you wanted to come and go when you wished. Imagine dat you had a house here in Canada where you normally live and dat you said I could live in Portugal and dat you stopped by to be wid me when you wanted."

He narrowed his eyes almost suspiciously.

"If I had to choose, live alone in Portugal and sometimes you visit or come to Canada and you visit more frequently because you live near… I would come to Canada."

He snorted and got up.

"Ya wouldn't come after me, ya dimwit. Ya're too stubborn ta run after anyone."

Isabel shook her head.

"At first, no. But den I would say I wanted a holiday house and I start come. Maybe I wouldn't admit in words, but I would still be ready to abandon everything and come after you. All because I love you, because I want be wid you. Stupid, right?"

"Damn right."

It cut her deeply that he'd agreed. Holding back tears, Isabel turned to the keyboard and resumed playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

"Cut that out," he grumbled. "Ya do nuthin' but play depressin' stuff! Why don't ya play my song fer a change. Ya ain't sung it in ages."

In over nine months, to be exact. She hadn't sung it since before Lilia had been born. Isabel looked at him.

"Dat song is sad, too."

"No, it ain't," he insisted with a deep frown. He looked almost as if he was pouting. "It ain't happy, but it ain't sad. It's… love songs are always stupid happy 'cause it's all a bed o' roses, or they're stupid sad 'cause it's all pain an' tears; but that song's different. It's like… like yer lover is causin' ya pain but it's still worth it."

Was that the real reason why he liked it? Because he fancied she would love him despite whatever pain he might cause her?

"It ain't a love song," he grumbled. "It's a song o' devotion."

Devotion?

"Whatever," and he turned to leave.

"Come back after you put her in bed," Isabel said quickly. "I need time to afinate de guitar."

The man hesitated.

"Ya mean tune the guitar."

"Yes," she conceded. "Tune de guitar."

His face softened immediately and Isabel got the guitar. When he came back she had almost finished tuning it, as she was being lazy and taking her sweet time. He sat down on the floor in front of her and watched her intently. It made her smile.

Isabel gave up on playing the guitar halfway. She hadn't yet practiced enough to play it and sing at the same time, but Victor didn't seem to mind. He wanted her to say the words… to sing her devotion to him. And she was happy that she finally knew why he obsessed after that particular song. He wanted her to love him and was afraid she might stop caring for him. The song reassurred his insecurities. She'd simply have to sing it more often, wouldn't she?

"I need to practise more," she said when she finished.

"The guitar distracts ya," he complained.

She didn't insist. She'd practise while he was away so that she'd be able to play and sing without looking distracted.

"Victor, can I ask you a favour?"

"What?" And he looked immediately suspicious.

"I didn't leave de house all week. Can we have dinner in a restaurant today?" He frowned his aggravation and she let out a warning. "You don't want dat I feel like a prisioner, Victor."

"Fine," he growled.

* * *

It was ten past eight when they got to the diner. Even before parking the car, Creed knew everyone would be finishing their meal at that hour, which meant they'd be the last clients of the evening. Then he glanced towards the high hedge to the left of the building, which protected the patio tables from being seen by folks walking by. He couldn't see through the hedge, but he got the impression the patio was packed. And if it was packed outside, inside wouldn't be any better. He growled under his breath. This place was much quieter at lunch time.

"I told ya we should'ave come earlier."

A young waitress they hadn't met before acknowledged them with a smile, but she was talking to a couple of patrons so they had to wait at the door. It gave Creed the chance to observe the bar area. At lunchtime, it was always empty, obviously, and he couldn't stop wondering what time the place switched from food to drinks. It better not be early in the evening.

"I'm not going to have dinner at six in the afternoon," Isabel shot back in whispered Portuguese. "It's way too early."

The small tables of the bar area were being used by patrons having their dinners. He wondered if there were free tables. If there weren't, they'd be turning around and going somewhere else.

"It's way too early 'cause ya have a big lunch at one," he growled. "If ya had a lighter lunch at midday, ya'd be hungry fer dinner at six or seven."

There was music too, but the sound came from the main room. Live music, it seemed, and not the best in the world.

"And then I'd have to eat supper at ten because I'd be hungry when it was time to go to bed. No."

"Good evening!" The waitress grinned wide. "Table for two?"

"Yeah, and a high chair."

"This way, please."

The young woman led them through the bar area into the dining room. He hoped there was a table outside, but the waitress led them towards the end of the room and directed them to a table near the small stage. Great, they'd have to sit next to the country-spouting musician. Just great.

As the waitress got the high chair, Creed scowled a bit more. Even if it wasn't the table closest to the stage, and couldn't be that close since there was an empty area which he now realised was meant to be a dancing floor, it was still too close for him. Hell, all those patrons were too close.

"Next time you want to have dinner out," he grumbled in Spanish so no one could tell what he was saying, "I suggest you get ready to eat at proper local times."

Isabel thanked the waitress and sat Victoria in the chair. The girl was wide awake but quiet, her eyes scanning everything and everyone around her while chewing on a wooden toy.

"The place may be crowded now," Isabel continued in Portuguese, "but at least most people are ready to leave. If we had come at six or seven, we'd have had to put up with a full house throughout the entire meal; this way, we start out in a crowded place, but it'll be less crowded before long."

"That ain't the point!" And it made no never mind that it was a good point.

Isabel didn't answer, busy attaching a chain of colourful wooden beads to the chair, a cloth doll dangling from the other end. Victoria dropped the chewed toy immediately and grabbed the beads. Nevertheless, she kept looking up to stare at people.

"She's wonderful to bring to restaurants," Isabel said in smiley English, obviously trying to change the topic. "She makes no noise, no confusions."

Going through the menu, Creed shrugged.

"That's instinct. She's keepin' quiet to avoid gettin' the attention o' predators."

"Predators?"

Creed dropped the menu.

"She ain't familiar wi'the place nor wi'the people. Ain't ya ever seen documentaries 'bout wildlife? When the cubs o' gazelles an' zebras or even lions; when the cubs ain't surrounded by their kin, they'll lie down an' be quiet so no predators will see 'em. Victoria is doin' somethin' similar."

"Oh… Dat means she's afraid of dis quantity of people?"

"No, just bein' instinctively cautious. She doesn't recognise the people, the scents… if it weren't fer that, she'd be complainin' loudly 'bout all this noise. It just goes ta show that she dislikes loud sounds, but they don't cause no pain."

Creed also had the feeling that she complained about Isabel's singing because she didn't want to be challenged out of her comfort zone of low sounds. Once her instincts kicked in, though, she put up with the discomfort without any problem. It meant he had to train her to be less sensitive to sounds when she wasn't in watch-out mode. Especially because natural curiosity might soon lead her to ignore inate caution. He noted how her eyes were busy looking at everything and how there were moments when she seemed to lean her body towards something or other but then remained silent, perhaps letting out a weak mewl.

"Good evening again," the waitress finally returned. "And welc…"

"Steak," he interrupted. "Rare. An' make sure the fries ain't salty."

"Uh… yes, sir! And for you?"

"A steak for me too, please." Isabel smiled brightly and Creed rolled his eyes. There she was again, being unnecessarily friendly. "Rare, but his is very much more rare dan mine. My potatoes are wid _no_ salt, please. Lilia always wants to eat a little."

"Of course," the woman smiled. "Hey there, honey!"

Victoria stood very still as her wide eyes focused on the woman and Creed held back a growl. He'd asked for the background check on all the employees of Lena's diner and the other pizzeria on Monday. He'd soon know who this chick was and whether she was dangerous, but he'd rather she held back on the friendliness till he knew who he was dealing with.

"You're such a well-behaved little darling, but I'm still sure you'll want a roll of bread to chew on, won't you?"

Fear. Creed got up and stood next to his baby girl, petting her little hand. She mewled a bit and whimpered but the scent of fear faded away. The woman noticed his scowl, though. There was no way he could control the scowl, even if he did manage to bite back the growl.

"Are a lot of families dat come here?" The waitress, who'd lost most of the smile, turned to Isabel. "You appear to know all de tricks."

"Uh… No… I mean, yes, a lot of families stop by but, uh… I have a two-year old. There was no way she was quiet at the table unless she was busy with a piece of bread at that age."

The waitress glanced back at Creed, obviously uncomfortable in between his scowl and Isabel's uncalled for friendliness.

"Oh! What's her name? She's Lilia Victoria. Her Pappa is Victor, so we wanted dat she was Victoria."

"Kristal."

"Dat's a beautiful name. How old is she? Lilia is nine months."

"Kristal is two years old. She's a hurricane!" Creed picked Victoria up and the waitress glanced back at him. "Uh… I gotta go take your orders to the cook. Drinks?"

"Water for me, please."

"Beer," Creed grumbled as his baby girl started playing with the buttons on his shirt.

"Ok. I'll be right back with your drinks and the roll."

The moment the woman had turned her back, Victor moved into Spanish.

"Why the hell were you chatting up the chick? You don't know anything about her!"

Victoria turned her attention to the shiny cutlery and he pushed it all away from her reach, which had her whining grumpily. Isabel took a cracker from her bag and gave it to the girl.

"I can't wait for the check to suddenly become nice," she explained in Portuguese. "Either I'm nice from the get go or I forget about ever being nice. Besides, she has a baby daughter. That's already a connection that'll be easy to develop."

Creed humphed and turned the girl to face him. She was slobbering all over the cracker, her eyes shining with glee.

"Your Mamma has no idea how to follow safety procedures. She's a walking get-me sign."

Isabel chuckled and smiled happily at him.

"Whatchya lookin' at?" He grumbled mildly, not getting his attention away from the child who was once more focused on ripping out buttons.

"O papá perfeito."

The perfect daddy, hun? Not to gloat, but he was.

"She's going to miss you terribly when you go back to taking jobs."

Hun?

"I've been guessing you'll have to go back soon… We have already kept you away for too long and I remember you said there are levels and you have to be regular or you lose reputation. I don't want to hurt your career."

Creed shook his head.

"Ya ain't hurtin' nuthin'," he returned to English, expecting her to take his lead. "Don't ya worry yer pretty lil' head."

"Of course I worry," she said in English.

"Well, don't! I just told ya not ta."

"Don't you worry wid me?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, I worry wid you, too. I mean, I love you. Of course I worry!"

Creed did a double take.

"I worry 'bout ya 'cause ya can get _killed_ ," he whispered angrily. "Not 'cause I love ya."

Isabel breathed out, annoyed. As if she had a right to be annoyed. She was the one nagging him.

"You don't have to love a person to worry wid her, Victor. But if you love a person, den you worry. You can't love and not worry. So you worry wid me because of… reasons. But I love you, you know dat. Obviously, I have to worry. But dat's ok. Worried or not, I'm not saying anoder word about your job. I promise. Ok?"

Creed didn't answer. The waitress was coming over with the drinks and the bread and, anyway, if the woman was promising not to touch the topic again, he didn't need to bother and say anything else. She kept her promises.

He took the bread and cut it in half, which Lilia bit with glee.

Unfortunately, he did have to think about the topic. If he spent an entire year not taking any jobs, he risked sliding back to the previous tier. It was now late September and the last jobs he'd taken had been in late November. He'd have to take a couple of jobs, whether he wanted to or not.

He wouldn't leave before he had the background check results, though. The woman was dead set on making friends and he was not going to let her run around free without first making sure she was befriending harmless folks.

In fact, it might be wise if he never gave her too much time to run around free. He hadn't been joking when he'd told his baby girl her Mamma was a walking get-me sign. She'd been one from the very beginning.

He'd keep on taking jobs in Europe, where Sabretooth had never become that well-known. Working in the US was too dangerous at the moment. He might also take some jobs in Latin America and, if he worked on his Portuguese a bit more, he might even be able to break into the Brazilian market. Although it would be much more convenient if he took jobs in Canada. He'd be close to home and that meant less time spent travelling around. Going to London, for example, would always take 12 hours or more. Of course, working near home was to invite trouble to come knocking on his door. No. Not going to happen. He'd play it safe to the tiniest detail.

He should organise his schedule so he had two or three hits nearby in the same week. He could leave for five to eight days every one or two months. It would take him longer to move up the ladder, but he'd spend less time away from his baby girl… who was very much divided between gnawing the bread and playing with his shirt. But speaking of spending time away…

"Listen, that routine ya was talkin' 'bout at lunch…"

Creed interrupted himself with a light growl: the waitress was heading back with their food. At the same time, more and more folks were leaving the restaurant. Guess there was a real advantage to coming in late after all.

"Here you are… Rare and very rare. Enjoy your meal and call me if you need anything. I'm Frances, by the way. Enjoy!"

On the stage, the musician warned the patrons he was going to have a break for refreshing but that he'd be playing the requests which had been made in the meantime. And if there were any requests for him to sing later on, now was the time to write them down.

"D'ya think he'd take my request fer an hour of silence?"

Isabel gave him a grinning frown then looked suddenly alarmed, though there was no need for it. He was very much aware of Victoria's body twisting around so she could reach the meat.

"Off ya go, back t'yer chair, baby girl."

That got her nearly crying, obviously. But Creed gave her a fry from Isabel's plate and she forgot to carry on with the tantrum. If only it was that easy back in the house! Guess there was one good thing about meals in a restaurant, right?

"Ya don't like de singer? I think he's not bad."

"He ain't a bad player, I'll give ya that. But I'd rather enjoy my food in silence 'stead o' puttin' up with his choice o' songs _and_ his voice."

Isabel's naughty smile made him suspicious. Whatever she was planning right now, he got the impression it wouldn't be to his taste.

"Well, what you were saying about my new routine?"

Changing topics, huh? Either she was planning something for later or she had given up on whatever idea had flashed through her devilish brain.

"Where are ya gonna fit in yer trainin'?"

Isabel stopped chewing for a moment, then disguised a sigh.

"When you suggest?"

"I was thinkin' I could get up earlier so I can go for a run an' be back right after Victoria's breakfast. Then I play with her while ya get busy gettin' yerself fit again. Then, while she takes her morning nap, I could teach ya some more self-defense moves before it's time ta start lunch."

She didn't hide the dispirited sigh this time.

"Look, I suppose I need to do exercise. Fine. But I can do exercise after I play wid her, when she is sleeping her nap."

"Ya won't have much time ta exercise _and_ learn self-defense."

"Den maybe we can start self-defense after I get fit."

Nice try.

"How's about ya start self-defense _before_ ya get fit?"

Isabel rolled her eyes and grumbled a fine. It annoyed him all that resistance to th… Both he and Isabel turned to catch the falling bread but Creed was faster. Victoria laughed, her eyes shining. The dropping game was about to start.

"Ya lil' devil," he grumbled. "Ya take after yer Mamma, don't ya, ya aggravatin' lil' devil."

She only laughed harder and his face reacted in an instinctive smile. Knowing exactly what was about to happen, Creed gave her the spit-wet piece of bread. She took it to her mouth with her eyes shining devilishly, feet banging the seat excitedly. Then, with a low shriek of excitement she threw the bread to the side. In a flash, he grabbed the bread and she laughed harder, feet banging the chair frenetically.

"Lilia Victoria," Isabel got her attention with the doll at the end of the chain of beads. "Don't you be mean to your Pappa, love. His food is getting cold, can't you see? Let your Pappa eat first and then you can play with him. Here, take your doll, go on."

Hands tucked to her chest, Victoria leaned away from her Mamma and the doll. Creed resisted the temptation of picking the child up. Once more, he handed her the bread, her little eyes shining at him. He absolutely loved how she gave him all her attention that way, how she gazed at him with such happiness. Once more, she took the bread to her mouth, laughing all the way and not even giving it a single bite, then threw it away. As expected, he reached out for the bread. This time, though, he simply knocked the bread further away and, more importantly, away from her line of sight. He then showed her both his empty hands.

"Hey, look, no more bread. It's gone."

Her little head looked around looking for the edible toy but then returned to Pappa.

"There's no bread," he said in Portuguese. "Não há."

She already expressed herself in two easy Portuguese words, 'give' and 'there isn't', so he used them rather than confusing the child by teaching her English ones at this stage.

"Não há," he repeated.

She made a pout and raised both her hands. "Nah."

Behind the child, Isabel had gotten up and grabbed the bread, while Creed grabbed the toy with the bead chain and shook it in front of her, distracting her from her mother's movements. She giggled and caught it. Creed kept an eye on Isabel's movements, which was much easier now that the restaurant was emptying at a steady rhythm, and only returned his attention to the steak as Isabel sat down again. So what were they talking about? Ah, seld-def…

"And if I start wid guns and knives first?"

He growled under his breath. All that resistance really annoyed him.

"Look, ya're gonna learn how ta defend yerself one way or the other. I ain't gonna leave on a job knowin' ya can't punch an asshole not even ta save yer life. Or my daughter's!"

The woman blushed. It hit him he had just come across the perfect motivation for her.

"If you want dat I am capable of defend our baby if someone attacks me, den I really need a gun! I can't fight a professional, Victor! You know I can't."

"Ya ain't gonna be fightin' no professionals, woman. The only thing I'm worried 'bout are small-time low-life criminals. The moment one o' those realises ya ain't an easy vic, they'll get away an' never bother ya again."

Especially because he'd track them down afterwards and make sure they'd never bother anyone again. Isabel shrugged and once more said 'fine'. Not the least convinced, though. Hopefully, she'd get into it once she started training again… although he might have to take it very easy in order to boost her confidence.

Isabel glanced sideways and Creed followed it. The musician had been sitting at a table with a woman and Frances, the friendly waitress, had brought him at least two pieces of paper with requests. He didn't need to pay the assholes particular attention to keep track of their movements. Now, the guy was getting up again. Guess his break was over.

"I bet dat she is his wife," Isabel said.

Creed nodded his agreement. Lilia was either trying to bite off the head of the doll or trying to stuff the entire toy inside her little mouth. The important point was that she was distracted and that, being nearly alone in the room, he didn't have to worry much with being overheard. He put another forkful in his mouth and gave Isabel his attention.

"I'll have t'take a job soon. Maybe early November," it couldn' be any later than that! "I wants ya ta pick up the basics of self-defense 'fore I go."

The woman smirked but nodded.

"What?"

She looked him in the eyes.

"Today is three of October, 'Mor. One month is not soon, but is not a lot of time, too. I am going to effort de more I can to learn fast."

"Good. And it's 'make an effort', by the way."

She was still calling him that, 'mor, the way she used to when they were in Portugal. Well, better the shortened 'mor than the full word 'amor', which anyone knowing two words of Spanish would recognise as 'love'. At least 'Mor sounded like 'more', so people might be curious about the origin of the nickname, but they wouldn't dream of its true meaning.

"So, what I have to learn first?"

Hun? In self-defense? She wasn't kidding when she'd said she was going to make an effort!

"This time around, we're startin' wi'the basic o' the basic: prevention. If ya do everythin' right ta show ya ain't an easy vic, most guys won't think o' muggin' ya. Then we'll go through ways o' scaryin' off an attacker, an' _then_ we'll tackle the actual fightin' part."

She nodded and, for once, she did so with interest.

"I like dat plan."

Of course she did: his plans were well thought-out. Although, obviously, she must be thinking the three stages would be spread about in time. He didn't correct that impression. Better to wait for her first day of practice, next Monday. Although, perhaps he could spend the weekend hammering security measures into her brain: being aware of her surroundings, keeping weapons handy, as well as objects easily used as weapons, identifying and avoiding potentially dangerous areas… yeah, he could kick off her lessons with that.

"We'll start the first stage tomorrow."

She nodded and smiled, putting her cutlery side by side on the right of the plate.

"You want dessert after dat? I was thinking ask for an apple for Lilia Victoria."

His steak was almost done, too, and he told her to order the fruit for the girl. Another annoyance: Isabel kept calling the child Lilia Victoria rather than simply Victoria, but since he didn't want to risk her going to Lilia only, the way she had done back in Portugal, he bit his tongue.

Creed was putting his own cutlery down when a group of young women entered the restaurant and greeted everyone loudly, making a big deal around the waitress, Frances. Then they proceeded to head towards the table nearest to the stage. Weird. They were much too late for having din… The unexpected move got his attention: Frances, who already had the apple in her hand, went back to the counter and got a tray with soft drinks and a couple of beers. Great! The bar section must have just opened. That did it! It was the last time he was coming in this late in the evening, for sure.

"Here's the apple," Frances smiled way too brilliantly as she placed a small plate with the apple and a knife on their table. "Will you want some coffee?"

"No, just get us the bill."

She nodded and moved on to the chick table. Creed regretted his sudden decision: Isabel was now cutting the apple into pieces for Lilia to eat and she was going to take some time. He'd have time for half a dozen coffees.

Behind him, the chicks were inviting Angie to join their table; in the other part of the restaurant, diners had left and new patrons were filing in.

"This joint doubles as a bar," he grumbled to Isabel.

"Huh?"

"It works as a restaurant till a certain hour, then it starts actin' as a bar."

Isabel finally took a good look around her. She was definitely going to have her head chewed where it came to awareness.

"You think people are going to smoke in here?"

Was that her only worry?

"No, ya can't smoke indoors in public spaces in Canada. Not even in covered patios. That ain't the point." He growled at the stage. "An' that asshole keeps on playin' stupid songs, damn it!"

While he'd spent the entire evening so far going over slow songs, mostly older ones, the moment the chicks had come in, he'd moved over to more recent ones, more spirited in rhythm, but they still grated on his nerves.

"Well, I don't want dat you have a congestion."

Huh? Creed took the plate with the half chopped apple the woman was giving him and asked her what she was talking about.

"Congestão," she said in Portuguese, which didn't explain anything, as she got up. "You know, when you don't make de digestion. I don't want dat you have a congestion because of the music so finish feed Lilia Victoria while I make a request, ok? Don't worry, I choose a good song."

She winked and was about to hurry off but then stopped and glanced back at him. He got a sudden bad feeling that she was thinking about doing more than just placing a request.

"Whatchya gonna do, woman?"

She reacted to his low growl by lowering her voice and moving into Portuguese.

"You have been working very hard, Victor, making a lot of sacrifice to create a good cover story for us. It's about time I follow in your footsteps, my love."

And what was that supposed to mean?

Lilia's demanding dah distracted him and he swiftly got the child off the chair and onto his lap, giving her a piece of the chopped apple. When he looked back at the stage, Isabel was already talking to the guy, who got up and handed her his guitar.

She was going to sing. Damn the damned woman!

"I'm sorry to interrupt. My request is a special song for de best fader in de world," she smiled pointedly at him. "And for de man of my life. Thank you for everything you do."

With that intro, she was ostensibly working to make them look like a normal family, all very much in love and all that. And it was true that that was what their cover story was supposed to be: a normal family, a very much in-love couple, not a single cloud in the sky of their heaven. But did she really have to go out and proclaim it for everyone to hear?

"Only you

can make all dis world seem right"

It was stupid and cheesy, even if the lyrics might be appropriate for their cover story. He might even understand the importance of knowing as many people as possible, but that didn't mean they had to advertise how much in love they were supposed to be. Sometimes he thought she was trying to make believe he loved her, no matter how many times he told her it wasn't so.

"Only you and you alone

can thrill me like you do"

Victoria started grumbling. She really didn't like hearing her Mamma's voice blow out full force.

"Hush, girl," he rocked her a bit. "That's the closest yer Mamma has t'powers an' she knows how ta use it ta impress. Ya should learn t'appreciate it."

The room burst into applause and cheering when Isabel was done, and Lilia immediately started crying. Creed embraced her, telling her she'd have to get used to it. There were no two ways about it.

"It's a loud world we live in, baby girl," he whispered, offering as much comfort as he could.

"I didn't expect so much noise at the end," Isabel slipped to Portuguese as she hurried to his side, "Hush, my love, hush."

"Quiet down, girls," Frances the waitress was saying behind Creed's back. "You scared the poor thing!"

"Hon, play a lullaby, sort of, will ya?"

That was the musician's wife; Angie, the chicks had called her.

"Let's go," Creed growled under his breath.

Isabel nodded and grabbed her bag as she explained herself in Portuguese.

"Yes, let's, and don't worry: I have no intention of singing regularly here. I've got the choir, after all. I'll only ever sing in public here on rare, and I really mean _rare_ , occasions. I promise you."

She was saying that just to appease him, but since she kept her promises… At least she herself recognised it wasn't a good idea to be a performer up here in Canada.

"Hi, you're the new family who's bought that land in Canyon, aren't you?"

Great! Now the chicks wanted to chat! And it made no nevermind that the woman bugging him was the Angie woman, much older than the freshly arrived chicks.

"I'm Angie Dalton. Nice to meet you. You've got a great voice, honey."

"Hi, Angie, nice to meet you too. I'm Isabel and dis is my husband, Victor. Oh, and our baby girl, Lilia Victoria."

"Yeah, I've noticed her. I'm sorry we scared you with all that noise, honey."

She reached a hand to touch Victoria and Creed took a step back, getting his baby away from the woman's touch. She was still calming down, her little body shaking as the sobs lost intensity.

"We should go," he said curtly.

"Oh, right. I didn't mean to…"

Creed turned his back on her and grabbed the baby bag.

"Sorry," Isabel said and Creed took a deep breath to hold his temper in check. "You play too?"

"Oh, no. That's just Dale. I'm a doctor. I've got a clinic down in the town center."

Isabel's breath caught in the throat for a second and Creed himself turned back to look the woman from head to toe.

"Doctor? A pedi… uh… puh-dee-uh-t…"

"Pediatrician," he corrected in a heart beat. "We ain't shopped around fer doctors yet."

"Oh. No, I'm a general practitioner. But I can recommend a couple of pediatricians, if you'd like."

"Actually," if his baby girl had heightened senses, not to mention those accursed claws, then she'd have a healing factor too. He wasn't worried about that. "Isabel needs a doc. She's got a special blood type, ya see. Ya don't happen t'have openings fer a check up, do ya?"

Because Isabel hadn't been to a doctor since Lilia'd been born. Claimed she was in good health and didn't need one. But if he could push her into the hands of a female doctor near home… hell if he was going to waste the opportunity!

* * *

"Don't you need to run a background check on the woman _before_ you schedule appointments for me," Isabel grumbled in Portuguese the moment she got in the car.

"I got a feelin' she's clean. 'Sides, ya need a general practitioner t'go to. Hadn't ya just started makin' friends with her? Ya should be happy 'bout it."

She breathed out in annoyance but didn't give him any lip. It just underlined that she knew she was in the wrong when she said she didn't need a doc.

"I've been thinking about what you said, that Lilia's instinct is to be quiet and avoid strangers."

"English," he grumbled.

"After this. I want to make sure you understand what I mean."

That didn't bode well.

"I don't want my daughter to be wary of people she's not familiar with."

"Why not? Seems like a healthy thing, to avoid strangers."

"Oh, so you don't mind if she cries whenever we meet someone for the first time. And you don't mind that she's afraid of people she has never met. Is that it?"

No, of course he didn't want her to be afraid of strangers, but he sure as hell didn't want her to welcome them.

"Look, all I'm saying is that she needs to be around more people. People that you have checked and which represent no danger, obviously. She needs to socialise. It must start when she's little, or she won't learn how to deal with people properly. The first three years is when they learn these things, Victor. I want her to… to know how to play with children of her age and older, and younger, eventually. I want her to greet adults appropriately and to know what greetings are not appropriate from an adult."

Creed narrowed his eyes. He wasn't stupid; he understood what the woman was getting at.

"She's nine months old," he reminded her.

"Yes, and right now, as you said, she considers every person a possible predator and I'm pretty sure she'll get scared and cry if such a stranger talks to her or tries to play with her. Because all the peple she knows are the two of us and her instinct tells her everyone else is dangerous. Do you know what that will lead to? A lot of crying and avoidance of people she's not very familiar with. She must learn that strangers are not a danger for as long as Mamma and Pappa are around and she must learn it _now_."

Creed drummed his fingers on the wheel.

"And what d'ya suggest?"

"First we have to wait for the background checks." At least they agreed on something. "Then, if Frances turns out to be harmless, I'll try to organise some… I don't know, something where I can have Lilia meet and play with her daughter. Maybe Angie has children. It's best if we wait for the background check, 'mor. Then I can see how to help Lilia make friends with other babies and, that way, she learns not to fear their parents. What do you think?"

He thought he was going to sink a whole lot of money doing background checks on all the families in Creston.

"I think I got yer point. Ya can go back to English."

"No more Portuguese today," she smirked.

Creed breathed out a low growl. For as long as the child was socialising with kids her age and Isabel was socialising with their mothers as a way to support her… He knew it had to happen. When Lilia went to school, they would need to have a large network of acquaintances. Therein lay the problem, though. Isabel wasn't after acquaintances; she was after friendships.

There was nothing he could do, though. Even he would have to pretend some sort of interest in supposed friendships.

He'd let Isabel start that ball rolling. The longer he managed to stay out of the making friends effort, the better.

* * *

"Con te partirò" is sung by Andrea Bocelli

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	44. Creston: Spicy

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **44\. Creston: Spicy**

Lying in his bed, wide awake, Creed felt antsy. He wasn't sure what was wrong but… there was something definitely wrong. Isabel was sleeping peacefully on her side of the bed, while Lilia was peacefully sleeping in her crib.

He got up and walked over to the crib. She'd woken up about an hour or so ago, hungry. Isabel had nursed her in bed, her back against his body, and Creed had embraced both. The sweet scent of the woman's milk making him feel peaceful as she breastfed.

Perhaps that was the problem, the sense of peacefulness he got from his woman and the child. Perhaps it was just an illusion and he was neglecting signs of danger.

He leaned down and caressed his baby girl's wavy hair. It was strong and very dark. He breathed in her scent.

He could not afford to be complacent. He put on a pair of jeans and stopped by Isabel, squatting at her side.

On Sunday, she'd challenged him for a walk in the woods and had asked what to do if she came across someone. Since Victoria had been with them, which meant sparring was impossible, he'd told her how to escape and they'd practised evasive maneuvers. It had even been fun and they'd ended up making out in the middle of the woods. For a moment, he'd thought they were finally going to have sex but then Victoria had started complaining and it hadn't gone beyond making out. He had hoped they'd be able to pick it up during the girl's nap but Isabel had had other things in mind and, for the first time in months, he'd spent the night unsatisfied with simply holding the woman.

On Monday, she'd set out ready for the self-defense part but then had failed at every turn. She had apparently forgotten how to escape a guy's grip or how to throw a punch and the harder she'd tried, the worse the outcome had been. She'd been grumpy about it the whole day and, again, he'd wanted more than just holding her.

Pissed, he had had her simply punch the bag on Tuesday. What was the point of trying anything else? He'd figured she could spend the week working on her punches before going back to proper self-defense moves. The woman had still been grumpy and, very much aware he was ready to snap at her for whatever excuse, he'd spent the rest of the day out in the woods.

On Thursday, the day before, she'd finally snapped and accused him of not pushing her hard enough. Obviously, he had ended up pushing her too hard. He hadn't meant to, but he'd been so pissed! He'd even gotten her in a choke hold, which had really made her go nuts. Then she'd accused him of sabotaging her efforts.

Creed grabbed a strand of her hair and smelled it, enthralled with that scent that shot straight to his loins.

He had grabbed her by the neck, yelling she was to do nothing but punch that bag till she could throw a proper punch. She had held his glare, those eyes so beautifully ablaze, and had then proceeded to kick his balls. After that, the whole thing had gone to hell and they had just fucked like crazy in the gym. He hadn't even realised how very badly he missed sex till he'd started. They'd only stopped when Isabel had said she needed a breather, but by lunch time he was on her again and she welcomed him with eagerness. And in the afternoon, too. And in the evening.

Isabel whimpered lightly and he kissed her forehead.

"Sh, mi Inesita," he whispered in a hybrid of Portuguese and Spanish. "I'm here and you're safe. Completely safe."

It once more occurred to him how easy it is to inflict pain, and how hard it is to protect someone from pain. How easy it is to frighten; how difficult it is to comfort.

"I gotta go an' check the perimeter," he whispered in her ear.

Because there were survivalists around, at least a couple of them, and even if the closest neighbours were New Wave pro-vegan hippies, one can never know for sure.

Instead of getting up though, he licked his lips. He didn't want to go anywhere, all of a sudden. He wanted to wake her up and have more sex. He breathed in her scent deeply, almost desperately. It felt as if he was still going dry but… oh, that sweet spiciness that… Fuck!

Creed got up with a start, his mind reeling. Isabel's scent had not had the slightest hint of spiciness for months! Since… since she'd gotten pregnant, he realised. Did that mean…

He knew that women's scents vary. There are times when a woman's scent is more provocative, and times when it isn't. We're talking the same woman, here. He'd first noticed it when he was in the black ops and he had to put up with the same female clerks on a regular basis. But then a turned on woman is going to smell provocative, too, and he'd never really bothered to identify the difference between a turned on woman and that monthly taunt. Now, though…

Back when she was pregnant, Isabel's scent only got spicy when she was turned on, but it had been different. Arousal was musky and spicy in any woman, but there's always differences from person to person. The spiciness is different. And the spiciness he could smell right now was completely different, even if it was similar, even if it was still wrapped in a sweetness she'd never had before getting pregnant. Not to mention she was asleep, right now, and there wasn't the slightest hint of arousal's muskiness.

"Isabel," he shook her urgently. "Wake up, woman!"

She sat up startled, the girl's name on her lips.

"She's fine, listen: ya're going to the doc first thing in the morning and ya're tellin' her ta get ya on the pill, got it?"

She frowned and then shook her head.

"What?"

"Ya're fertile. Ya know, ready ta get pregnant," he told her. "And I don't wanna knock ya up again just like that."

If he hadn't knocked her up already. Damn it! She had given birth less than a year ago; she couldn't get pregnant again! It couldn't possibly be healthy.

Isabel made herself more comfortable, her frown deepening, then looked at him for a long moment.

"How you know?"

"It's yer scent," he explained. "It's different. I just realised what it means."

Isabel breathed out and looked at her hands.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not going to take any medicine when I'm breastfeeding."

Oh, right. He hadn't thought about that. He sat down on the bed next to the woman and breathed out the tension that had accumulated in his chest, even as the thought of no more sex for now pumped in a whole lot of aggravating tension. How long was a woman fertile for anyway?

"We have to use preservatives," Isabel said.

He frowned at her.

" _Preservatives_?"

She nodded and repeated the word in Portuguese, but Creed had already realised what she was thinking about.

"Ya mean condoms."

Not bad thinking. That way he didn't have to go about holding back. He looked at her and noticed her thoughtfulness was a bit downcast. He understood. He wasn't exactly looking forward to fuck inside a bag, either. He could only imagine how much it would cut down on his pleasure. But if the choice lay between condoms and forced celibacy – especially when Isabel's scent was provocative beyond his endurance – then condoms it would be. To make it worse, now that he was aware of that particular scent, it seemed to be even stronger.

He got up.

"I'm gonna check the perimeter," he said, hurrying away.

The longer he was near her, the more difficult it would be to hold back. As he left the house, though, he had an epiphany: they sold condoms everywhere and there was a 7-11 in town! He ran back to the room to get a shirt and a pair of boots.

Isabel got up, alarmed. "What is wrong?"

"Nuthin'! I'm gonna get us some condoms, that's all." He kissed her and fought against himself to let go. "I'll be right back!"

* * *

He'd taken little over then minutes to get back. The roads were deserted, so he'd been able to speed. He didn't even bother to take the bike to the garage and simply parked in front of the house, the light of their bedroom guiding him like a lighthouse. The moment he opened the door, though, he could smell the woman.

It was the same sweetness as always, but there was also that spiciness. He fancied he could smell it flowing down the stairs from the open door of their bedroom. It hit him like a claw of pleasure grabbing him by his insides and making him hard. More than hard, thirsty and hungry in a way that was different from the normal horniness he'd known all his life.

He lept up the steps and entered the room. His Nesie was naked, even if she had a sheet over her torso, and was playing with her clit. He was nearly salivating at the sight.

"You ever used a preservative," she asked with a smirk.

"Condom," he corrected, opening the box and fishing a little packet out of it without getting his eyes from her, his hands a bit unsteady. "Ya know what they says: there's a first time fer everythin'."

She got on her knees and held out a confident hand.

"Make yourself presentable," she said self-assuredly in her native language. "I find all those clothes very offensive."

He flipped the packet at her, and actually clawed the jeans off him. It was faster than unzipping, anyway.

"Ya think yerself an expert, do ya?"

But there was something in her way that actually claimed she thought she was. For a moment, his horny need faulted and he frowned suspiciously at her.

"Spill the story out."

"Are you certain?"

He growled a suddenly angry yes and stumbled while getting rid of his socks.

"Vanessa taught me," she shrugged.

"Who?"

He couldn't recall anyone with that name that might have come near Isabel.

"I was seventeen and I was thinking… well, to be honest, Miguel was a bit impatient. So I talked to Vanessa and she taught me all about condoms." She looked at him with a bit of annoyance on her face. "Obviously nothing happened."

"Obviously," he echoed, desire having drowned all anger by now.

His hands were almost trembling from all the delay as he reached for the woman and grabbed her hair, pushed it taught so she'd look up at him. Her pupils were dilated and her heartbeat was high, but it was that spiciness…

"She told me dat dere are two ways off putting a condom." She said breathlessly in English, and carefully ripped the thing open. "One, is… uh, let me think de right words."

She bit her lower lip, her eyes rolling up and down as she prepared her speech. He couldn't wait, though, and pulled her backwards by her hair, till she was lying back on the bed.

"One way, can make a man dat is up down; and de oder way can make a man dat is down up." She chuckled silently, teasingly. "But I only know one off dem."

He kissed her and for a moment they both forgot about the condom, but when he bit down her breast she nearly whimpered.

"Let me put it on you," she returned to Portuguese.

* * *

Condoms sucked. Beyond big time.

"You should buy those things in bulk," Isabel sighed, her breath still fast.

"Ya really need ta start on the damned pill," he countered.

But as unpleasant as the plastic felt around him, as much as it frustrated him not to be able to feel his woman's skin, her juices… God, he was ready for more!

"No, Victor, I need a break," she mewled when he slid two fingers inside her. "I'm so fucking sore."

Her body was still begging to be fucked, though. Grunting in frustration – as if he hadn't touched her in a month – he got in between her legs and started eating her up instead. She laughed.

"I'm not leaving the house tomorrow. I'll be wobbling about! Oh, wait, wait!"

He stopped and looked up at her, helped her to sit up.

"I'm sorry but I'm serious," she shook her head. "I think you made me use muscles I didn't even know I had. And I used them too much. I need to keep my legs closed for a bit."

She moaned in pain as she stretched her body bit by bit. They had only been at it for… Hmm. Nearly two hours. And his stamina meant he only needed a couple minutes in between rounds. But he still wanted her!

"Maybe we should'ave changed positions more often," he grumbled, annoyed.

"It isn't just the muscles," she grimaced. "We've been fucking all day and and I was already a bit sore. After these last rounds... even your tongue is a bit too much right now. I feel like I'm going to be walking with my legs open for a week."

He breathed out in annoyance. In the beginning of her pregnancy, they'd done it one to three times a night, usually nightly and she'd never mentioned being sore. And, before that, back in his cabin in Alberta, they'd… Actually, now that he thought about it, it had usually been one to three times in a session, with one to four sessions a day, and she did ocassionally complain of being sore. Tonight… he hadn't really counted, but it had had to have been at least seven or eight times in the last two hours, and he hadn't been going for gentle either.

The worst thing was that he was still hard. It was as if he was making up for all the months of celibacy.

"Give me a few minutes to get my breath back and I'll blow you, ok?"

He shook his head and bit her shoulder a bit less than lightly.

"I wanna be inside ya," he grumbled. "It's that scent of yers."

She tensed and he growled she didn't have to worry. If she was sore, she was sore. He wasn't going to push it.

"No," she said in a small voice. "I'm thinking… the smell you're talking about… it's the smell of my fertility, right? Does it mean that… when I'm fertile, your instinct is to fuck me till I'm pregnant?"

He shrugged. Maybe, but…

"There's times in a month when a woman smells more enticing. I mean, it's a scent that can make me hard in an instant, but it never made me go into an overdrive like this. It just makes me wanna fuck the woman, once or twice, an' then I'm good ta go. This was probably 'cause I hadn't fucked ya in so long. Pent up tension, I guess."

Her shoulders sagged a bit. She must be dead tired.

"I'm gonna take a cold shower," he decided, even if he didn't leave her side. "Ya should try an' get some sleep."

"I have to make the bed first."

But she grimaced as she got up and her legs were definitely shaky. He grabbed the sheets and pull them out.

"I've got this."

"Ok," she sighed. "I'm just going to pee then. Maybe have a shower, too. I'm so sweaty!"

That had his boner back up instantly. He definitely needed a cold shower. Looking backwards as she headed to the bathroom, it occurred to him that the spiciness of her scent was more intense than of any woman he could think of. Could it be… No. But it made sense. She was his woman and his every instinct reacted to that fact. It would make sense, then, that his body reacted more strongly to her scent than to any other woman's. It didn't mean that other women didn't get him up, it just meant his animal side was on a mission to impregnate the woman that belonged to him, while the others were simply pleasure.

Except that it was too early to knock Isabel up. She had a frail human constitution and piling pregnancies could cause problems.

He finished putting on fresh sheets on the bed and went to the bathroom. Isabel was about to switch on the water and he quickly joined her. The water would help tone down the scents emanating from the woman.

"I'm gonna go fer a run early in the morning," he told her. "I wanna get ta know the area a bit better."

It was an excuse, obviously. Not that he didn't want to know the area with his eyes closed, which meant roaming about as much as possible, but he just wanted to stay away from her spicy perfume. She needed a real break to recover and he wasn't sure he would be able to hold back.

"I was thinkin' o' coverin' as much ground as possible, so I'll probably be away the whole day. Maybe even two days. Think ya can manage without me?"

She smiled up at him, not very enthusiatically, though.

"I'll have to survive, I suppose."

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If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	45. Creston: Background Checks

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

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Hi, sorry for the late update. Got stuck without Internet for neay a week.

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 **45\. Creston: Background Checks**

Isabel's mood was unstable. One moment she was attacking the punching bag with all she was worth, and the next she was throwing her fists towards it with tantrumish abandon. Victor was a jerk! He could very well teach her how to escape grips; it was far more useful than punching. Better yet, he could teach her how to carry her gun and her adamantium blade so no one could spot them, and then teach her how to use them against any attacker. That sounded much more useful than even the grips.

She breathed out and glared at the bag.

It was all a waste of time, anyway. She'd never be any good at it.

"Dah!"

The shriek jolted Isabel and she immediatelly turned to her baby girl, playing with her blocks in the portable playpen. She had been babbling as she played, but her voice had been low and thoughtful.

"What is it, my love," she asked in Portuguese.

The girl looked up and giggled, then rolled onto her side and started crawling to one of her dolls, further off. When she got to the doll, she lolled back and forth, then opened her mouth wide and bit it.

"Your father is such a bad influence," Isabel shook her head, smiling at the adorable child. "You really need to spend some time with other children, don't you?"

"Nesi!"

Lilia sat up and stared at the door of the gym.

"I got the results," the man entered the room with a bunch of papers, giving them to her as he squatted by the pen. "Ya wanna hear this too, baby girl? It affects ya big time, ya know."

Isabel glanced over the tens of pages printed in a small font. Did he really expect her to read it all?

"So, any person problematic?"

Victor was busy eating up Lilia's neck, who was laughing in shrieks, so Isabel had time to once more glance through the sheets. Each person had their own report, each composed of several pages and a single photo, so she knelt down and started making individual piles for each report.

"That waitress, Frances, she's freshly divorced an' raised hell fer her ex. Sure, the guy cheated on her, but she still strikes me as someone ya can't rely on. Too loud, too messy, too scandalous. Don't get too close t'her."

Isabel located the report on the woman and looked at the first page.

"I thought you said dis was going to take two weeks or more."

"Yeah, these things take time, especially when it's so many people. But after last Friday, I sent 'em a message ta hurry up wi' the Lena's Place staff. Also asked fer a check on the doc, Angie. That one ain't ready yet."

"Okay, so… you want dat I spend de entire day read dis or can you give me a resume?"

Lilia had been trying to reach for the papers and, being thwarted over and over by her Pappa, she started complaining. Loudly. As if it had been planned, Victor handed the baby over to her and Isabel took her back to the pen. Obviously, she switched to wailing long before Isabel lay her there.

"Oh, stop that, Lilia Victoria!" She said mildly in Portuguese. "You are not going to play with Pappa's paperwork. It's a big no-no, my love. Here, take your dolly."

Lilia refused the toy and wailed harder. A battle of stubbornness it would be. Isabel picked another doll and started playing herself with them, trying to distract the child.

"As I was sayin': Frances King, 24 years old, is freshly divorced. King is her maiden name."

Lilia interrupted herself for a moment at the sound of her Pappa, then went straight for the most frustrated, angriest shrieks she could manage. Isabel sighed and reached for the blocks.

"Do you want one of these instead? Yeah? Let's build a tower!" But the child flailed and kicked till the blocks were all on the ground. "Oh, you prefer a road of blocks. Alright, then! A road it is."

"She's got a two year old girl by the name o' Kristal. The ex-husband is one Samson Norris an' they were married fer two years and a bit. He cheated on her with a local woman, an accountant, and apparently the whole affair started 'fore poor lil' Frances even got knocked up."

"Before she got pregnant? If Kristal is two years old and dey were married for two years and something… He what? Started de affair in deir honeymoon?"

"That's what she claimed durin' the divorce, but lemme see… Victoria! Knock it off already!"

The girl stopped shrieking and looked attentively to Pappa, her little breathing nearly suspended.

"Ok. The kid ain't yet two; she's 22 months old."

Tantrum shrieking gave way to heartbroken crying. Isabel gave up on the kicked blocks and picked her up. Sleepiness was probably fueling the scene too.

"She was born prematurely… 37 weeks. The woman probably got knocked up a couple o' months 'fore the weddin', if my Math ain't failin' me."

"And de affair started _before_ she got pregnant? She should have made a bigger scandal, if you want know."

Victor chuckled and collected all the reports.

"Bring 'er t' the den." Isabel followed him as he continued. "She was a home-maker, but The Lena's owner offered her a job so she could support herself. She's currently livin' with her parents."

"Wait! He cheated _and_ he got de house?"

"No, _she_ got the house but she's tryin' t'sell."

Lilia was sobbing quietly, her head leaning against Isabel's neck, as both Mamma and Pappa sat down on the sofa.

"Dah…" She mewled, stretching a hand to Pappa.

Victor grabbed her little wrist and kissed her hand, which tickled a wet smile to the girl's face. Then he swallowed the whole hand and she giggled, tried to escape. The moment her hand was free, though, she stretched it out to Pappa again with another dah. Isabel kissed her face and accomodated her on the nook of her arm, which had little Lilia fussing until Victor once more ate her hand.

"And her ex," Isabel asked. "Anything special about him?"

"Samson Norris? He lives in Arrow Creek, but he's out o' the picture. The asshole didn't even try t'fight fer his daughter's custody. As fer the girl, I got her medical history here. Had the beginnin' of a pneumonia when she was nine months old but, other than that, seems t'have no problems."

Isabel rocked Lilia a bit more. Her eyes were glazed over with sleepiness but she was still resisting, keeping them open with a stubborn frown.

"Now the main course: Lena Moreno. That's the owner an' founder o' Lena's Place. She's 31 years old, born to a family o' Portuguese origins."

Isabel looked sharply at him. Portuguese? Did that mean…

"Her grandparents were from the Azores and emigrated to the Okanagan region. She was born in Cawston, more specifically, over 200 miles west of us."

"Miles?"

"Over 300… over 350 km. She has parents and a sibling who still live there. She had a troublesome youth: got knocked up when she was 16 an' dropped out o' school. After that, she took a First Aid course – which is always good – an' she worked at several places till she saved up enough ta set up the diner, 'bout four years ago."

A third generation descendant. From that troublesome youth, she probably didn't get on with her family. She probably couldn't speak a word of Portuguese. Pity… For a moment there, Isabel had hoped she'd have someone she could speak in Portuguese with, besides Victor.

"She's got a daughter, Rose. 15 years old, father unknown, average marks at school. She's known t' help out as a waitress and as a babysitter. No known troubles."

The babysitter Angie had mentioned, during the check-up Victor had fixed for her. She wondered if he had thought about the possibility of having that girl babysitting.

"Lena has one evening cook, Earl Morse, and a lunch cook, Lillie Walterson. Mose is in his early fifties, just as his wife, Gwenda. She's into craft stuff an' they have no children, so they ain't o' no consequence fer us. The Walterson woman, on the other hand, has two kids. Eight-year-old Lenora an' four-year-old Stanford. The husband, Cassidy, is a clerk. There's another part-time waitress, Amber Rhodes. She's 17 and she has a brother, Willard. He's 14 years old and there's no known troubles either. Their mother works as an educational assistant at the Canyon-Lister Elementary school, so ya should target her an' get on good terms with her. Her name's Annette, better know as Nettie in her job."

The way he put that, Isabel had to make an effort not to roll her eyes. It was ridiculous, befriending people based on their job. She would get to know the woman, yes, but not necessarily befriend her. Not if they didn't have anything in common.

"Their father, Vince, is a nurse at Creston Hospital. Ya connect wi'the woman an' then I'll check 'im out, see if he's trustworthy. There's also a bartender, Kent Garrard, 28. He's from Ottawa and has been movin' every two ta three years since he's nineteen. No known troubles, not even a fine. Suspicious. I don't want ya talkin' ta the guy, ya hear? Not until I've checked his house an' stalked 'im a bit. Movin' around as much as he does, he's gotta have some skeletons."

"Nothing more dan hello and good night," she promised.

"There's also a cook assistant, Stella Levitt. 32 year old, single mother of a 13-year-old girl, Jewel. Father unknown. Jeff Rivera Junior, 20 years old, is a local boy who's been working as Moreno's waiter since the place opened. His father works at Creston Petrol Station and his mother, Misty, is a civil servant wi' the Mounties. Finally, there's a couple o' dykes: Evelina Ashton an' Megan Wheal. They're dishwashers."

"What's dat, dyke?"

Isabel didn't take her eyes off Lilia, whose eyes were finally starting to close.

"Lesbian. They're in their twenties an' they live together. They ain't from around, though. And at least one was flagged by social services. Megan Wheal. She was kicked out o' the house by her family when she was 16 'cause o' bein' a dyke. That was ten years ago."

"Dyke," Isabel repeated, trying to memorise the word. "Is dat a normal word or is an insult?"

"It ain't supposed t'be nice, that's fer sure. Anyway, they ain't got no record o' drugs use, though they were involved in some LGTB protests a few years back."

"What's dat, LG… uh…"

"LGTB. It stands fer lesbian, gay, transsexual an' bi-sexual. It covers all sorts o' non-hetero sexuality."

Isabel thought it over. The man had called them dykes, which was likely to be offensive, but he didn't seem particularly bothered by the pair.

"So, you think dey are a problem?"

Victor shrugged.

"Not at first sight. There's the protests, true, but they wouldn't have moved t' Creston if they wanted t'be involved in demonstrations. I'll bet they're tryin' t'live quietly."

So he didn't see their sexuality as dangerous. Good.

"What about Angie Dalton and her husband?"

Creed looked for the report.

"Dale Dalton – should have changed his artistic name, if ya ask me – is a failed musician. He was involved in five different bands since his late teens. Then he started a music shop, which flopped. Next he became a music teacher, but it didn't last, either. These days he plays at different joints fer some change an' basically lives off his wife. His wife an' some money his folks left 'im, but ya get the picture. All I got here on Angie is that she's a general practitioner who owns a clinic… but she also has a partnership with a dentist who works from her clinic. I'll get a more detailed picture of her life next week. Anyway, they ain't got no kids."

Lilia was finally asleep, but Isabel decided to keep her in her lap a bit longer to make sure she was deep in sleep and wouldn't wake up when she put her in her crib.

"What about de people in de Pizza Café?"

"I ain't got those yet. I asked 'em t'hurry up the reports 'bout the Lena staff 'cause ya was already bein' all friendly t'them. Anyway, ferget de Pizza. Ya got Luso-canadians an' failed musicians. Ya're stickin' wi'the Lena's Place."

He was so sweet, pushing her into the company of failed musicians… Lucky him, she had liked the place, not to mention the waitress and even the so called 'failed musician'.

"Ok. You want take her upstairs while I start wid de lunch?"

As if he needed asking! The man was already picking the sleeping girl carefully.

"And tonight we go to Lena, right?"

The man glanced her way and breathed out harshly, though not quite growling.

"Yeah, yeah."

Friday evening at Lena's for dinner and… who knew what else? The new routine Isabel wanted was going well.

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If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	46. Creston: Making Friends

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

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 **46\. Creston: Making Friends**

They had arrived to Lena's Place half an hour earlier than the previous week, precisely at seven thirty-two. It could have been two hours early, but Isabel had chewed Creed's ears off with the importance of working on their social cover, which meant going at the same time so as to see the same people and have a better chance of starting a covnersation. He could be the least friendly of the two, he could even cut down on the chatting and the niceties, but they must pass off the vibe of a perfect couple. The perfect opposites-attract kind of couple. In the worst case scenario, he could even be surly to everyone in the restaurant! But he must show the world that she was the only woman in his life, the mother of his child, the love of his life.

"You're a good lier, Victor," she'd insisted a couple of times. "So lie like your daughter's life depends on it. And remember that her social life, her _happiness_ , does depend on _us_ showing the world that we are _both_ madly in love with each other."

If she hadn't been spewing truth on top of truth, he might have been pissed.

"But please keep in mind it's best if you don't say you love me, don't even call me love or anything cheesy like that."

Although she could keep on calling her love in Portuguese. Talk about double standards.

"Attentive gestures spell love better than every love poem and love confession in the world. Just look me in the eyes like nothing in the room is as important as me and listen to me like you think my every word is super-interesting. That alone will settle the whole thing."

"Ya think I don't know how ta pretend I'm in love?"

"Have you ever been in love? Besides, there are plenty of people in love who have no idea how to show they're in love, so I'm sorry but I'd rather give you pointers. I'll keep them to the very minimum."

"Here's a pointer fer _you_ : ya're in Canada; speak in English."

"Ah, good point! Speak in Spanish every now and then so people overhear you. It'll give us the chance to spread the word about your supposed Spanish heritage and it'll create curiosity so strangers have an excuse to start a conversation with us. After we make some acquaintances with local couples, you can then drop the act and chalk it up to having spent the last years in Spain. You just needed some time to get the Spanish off your system."

Guess there was no point telling her to drop her native Portuguese for the time being. She'd just give him those same two arguments.

"What else? Don't bother smiling at people and being friendly. Just be yourself: you're not a friendly guy, so don't pretend to be one. Just avoid being rude. Again, if people are going to like you, it'll be for things that matter: first, if they feel that you listen to what they say and remember it later, they'll be half-way sold. Very few people do that and it will be something more valuable than being the smiliest, friendliest ass."

He could do that easily. If there was something he was good at, it was paying attention to people to gauge their level of menace and intelligence.

"Second, let people notice that you only give your attention to what really matters, in this case, your family. I know what kind of sacrifice you did for your daughter: you left an entire life behind and reinvented yourself for her sake and safety. If people realise how dedicated you are to your daughter, they'll hold you in high esteem. It's one of those basic things: people always appreciate a parent that makes sacrifices for the well-being of their children."

If that was true, then every damned person in this community would soon have the greatest respect for him. He'd make sure of that.

"And once folks realise that you only give attention to what you consider important, then they'll know you consider them important when you give them some attention."

For as long as he didn't have to give attention to assholes!

"Third, if you say something and then you keep your word, people will see that you are trustworthy, and that is fundamental to be liked. Nobody wants to be around someone who can't be trusted."

Oh, he'd have no trouble being seen as a man of his word. It was the easiest thing in the world to do! Although, truth be said, he was mostly used to keeping his word in matters of life and death. Mostly death. Perhaps the third point might need a bit of time to become obvious to the living public.

"They'll take you for a bit-on-the-cold-side serious, no-nonsense man who can be trusted for things that matter. And that, my love, is far more important that being smiley and friendly and open to making new acquaintances. It will scare away superficial people, that you yourself hate, and it will attract people who are serious and trustworthy."

She had better be right about it.

Once again, the place had been crowded by the time they had gotten there and they had once again been stuck with a seat nearer to the stage, much tp Isabel's glee. This time, though, the orders had taken longer: Isabel had had the bright idea of waving at Angie Dalton as they were sitting, and the woman had come over for a chat. Then Frances had decided to join the chat rather than take any orders.

Creed had bitten his tongue and done his best to roll with the tide, especially because the topic was children, although limited to Victoria and the older Krystal. His baby girl stood very still on his lap as both Angie and Frances tried to spark the girl's interest while Isabel did her best to make her participate. He was aware he should have joined the woman's efforts to familiarise the child with at least the doc – being a general practitioner, she could check up on Victoria off record – but his ingrained distrust had been stronger than his reason and, besides, Isabel had said he should be himself and he had never been a chatty asshole.

Then Dale Dalton had taken his break and had joined the group. That had been the limit, and Creed had finally told Frances to get them steaks and the famous bread roll for Lilia. He had even dropped a civil 'please' to avoid any rudeness. Dale and Angie Dalton had still hung about till the steaks finally arrived. It had been enough for Creed to realise twice that he and Dalton had absolutely nothing in common. The man's life revolved around music, Canadian country music in particular, and being his wife's handyman. Suppose he'd have to put up with the guy for the benefit of being intimate with a doc, but, damn!, what a boring ass.

Fortunately, the woman fancied some dancing and dragged the man to the open area in front of the stage, while the music system belted through a list of songs previously set by ol' Dale. According to Frances, when she brought their orders, Angie loved dancing and usually took her husband's breaks as an excuse for dancing… except when the guy was tired, which seemed to be often to Creed.

Once more, they were amidst the last patrons to end dinner. If anything, they finished even later than the previous week, thanks to all that pre-order chatting. They were just finishing their steaks when the three stooge-chicks came in. This time, though, his eyes acknowledged the pregnant woman in their midst.

Looking at her tall slim frame and the large belly, he guessed she'd be seven or eight months along. That child would be about a year older than Lilia and they would almost certainly be colleagues at school, even if in different school years. He might as well learn as much as possible about her. Another thought had him eyeing the other two chicks: they were all about the same age as the waitress, whom they called Fran and Franny. If they didn't already have children, left at home with their pappa or a nanny, they would probably have some soon enough. It made sense to take advantage of the fact that they all knew each other and make their acquaintance in bulk. The question was how to go about it.

He could easily overhear them as they sat down and greeted both Frances and Angie, so he quickly gathered that the pregnant one was called Lyn and that her partner, Nelson, was doing an evening shift, though he couldn't get what his line of work was. The louder one was Della, all fireworks and eager to talk about her love interest, Fred. If he was nothing more than love interest, that meant she hadn't yet popped a kid, but might do so sooner than later, at least from the way he was constantly taking her on hikes in the company of a tent, just in case it rained (cue in conspiratory giggles). The quieter one was called Pru and was shyly dating a Nate who sounded like he was a work colleague of Nelson's. Good friends at any rate. Another one likely to pop a kid in two or three years. Now he just needed to discover their surnames… and their real first names. The Pru chick was probably a Prudence, but there are weird names around and he should make sure before having them checked.

"You have no idea how much I envy your hearing," Isabel said in Portuguese as he shared his discoveries in Spanish. "But if you're willing to stick around for a bit, I'll find the rest for you. It's my specialty."

She winked then smirked devilishly and Creed got the feeling it might turn out to be fun if they partnered up to discover the good and the bad of every folk in town. She got up and took Victoria out of the high chair, dropping her cheerfully on his lap as an excuse to talk at his ear.

"Ask Frances to get an apple for Lilia Victoria, ok? And remember that this will take a little if I'm to do it well."

"Dah," the girl stretched a hand after Mamma.

"Mamma'll be back soon, Victoria. She's got work t'do."

"Nah?"

He chuckled and almost agreed with the girl 'nah Mamã', there isn't no Mamma for no one. Instead he just repeated that Mamma was right there and she'd be back soon, then he got her drooled over fabric doll to distract her.

Dale Dalton had started taking requests by now, and that meant the occasional asshole stopped by Angie's table to name a song. However, the doc had swapped tables to join the trio, drinking sodas and tame-looking cocktails, which meant folks asking for songs often took the moment to say 'hi' to the chicks. It didn't dawn on Creed how useful that arrangement was to make their acquaintace till Isabel leaned on Angie's chair.

"Hi, again, Angie. I wanted a request music but I don't know what Dale plays. Is Canadian country, right? Victor says dat is what he is playing, but because I don't know nothing about Canadian country… You can't write some of de singers dat he sings covers so I know what to request, right?"

Sure, she could! Creed heard the woman go through her large canvas bag and grumble she didn't have any paper then Della yelled out for Franny to bring some paper and pen.

"Thanks," Isabel smiled brightly (he could hear it in her voice and it annoyed the hell out of him that she was smiling at the worthless chick rather than him). "I'm Isabel. Isabel Creed-Kredall."

"Adela Hastings," the loud one said. "I heard you sing the other day. You've got a great voice."

"Ah, thank you, Adela."

His ears working at full capability, Creed was sure he noticed some holding back in Isabel's voice. Had that been because of the praise? Frances came in with the requested paper and pen and the conversation died down, while Creed took the chance to ask for an apple for his baby girl, busily chewing on his fingers now that her first teeth were finally on their way out. Near the stage, another waitress was clearing away tables and chairs by the stage, near the music box.

"Congratulations, já agora. Seven months?"

"Uh… yeah, how did you know?"

Reservation. That one was either shy or… No, she was just plain suspicious, and that made her a suspicious acquaintance. He'd have to check up on her carefully.

"Is called lots of experience. I have a… I _had_ a big family in Portugal. When I was growing up, I had lots of little cousins be born, you see. And I had a grandmoder dat promised she could say if is boy or girl from de appearance of de belly."

Adela laughed heartily at that and asked Isabel to guess. Creed heard his woman 'hm' thoughtfully before going with boy. That had everyone gasping; well, all but Angie.

"It's fifty-fifty chances of getting it right," the asshole played down the successful guess, and it made no nevermind he might agree with her.

Frances came in with the apple already cut in pieces and smiled heartily. Behind her an old couple went over to the cleared area and started dancing.

"Teething, huh?"

"No, no," Isabel was saying behind him. "My grandmoder always said dat de appearance of de belly helps to guess right in seven out of ten times."

Eager to get rid of the chatty chick but aware he mustn't be rude, he explained the bottom front teeth were finally visible under the gums then got a piece of apple and handed it to Victoria.

"Krystal cried day and night," the woman said. "She had fever, diarrhea… It was hell!"

"Uh-huh," he barely held the growl, and decided that ignoring people trying to chat him up while he was focused on his child didn't count as rude. As Isabel had so wisely put it, he was simply showing the world what really mattered to him. "Ya don't want no apple, baby girl? Ya sure? Here, look at Pappa eatin' some. Yum, yum! Ya sure ya don…"

But little Victoria was already stretching a hand with her most demanding 'dah', and he was happy to comply. Behind him, the Pru chick was talking about her grandma and a way of guessing the sex of unborn babies while the doc swore such midwife tales were absolute nonsense. Isabel had been talking in a low voice, so only when the meddling Franny walked away did he manage to listen in on that conversation.

"…an angel in de pregnancy, but den she passed day and night crying during two months. I used to say dat was to compensate how quiet she had been."

The knocked up chick seemed to ease up, though she still didn't sound friendly, and hoped her Gabriel would keep on being quiet.

"Gabriel? I had an uncle called Gabriel. Is a good strong name," Isabel said.

"It's Nelson's father's name. He died when Nelson was young and he wanted to pay him an homage."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear dat. Car accident? My dad died in one when I was a little girl."

Fuck! What the hell was the woman doing? Her supposed father had died in a fake accident a few months ago in Canada! On his lap, Victoria whined grumpily and he got another piece of apple which she bit eagerly before trying to pry it out of his fingers.

"Oh, that's awful," but the chick's voice didn't seem to find the tragedy too touching. "Nelson's father was a police officer. Died in the line of duty."

And she couldn't care less about the whole thing, from the sound of it. Victoria's gums, not to mention those barely visible twin teeth, closed down like a vice on his finger.

"Oh," Isabel's voice was less emotional too; guess she'd sensed the other woman's true feelings on the whole topic. "Police officer… I hear sons of police officers usually go to police, too. Your Nelson, he's… ?"

"Whatchya doin', girl?" He grumbled as Victoria grabbed his hand to better position it. He noticed the piece of apple had fallen and growled lightly at his own distraction. "Here's some more apple. No, I'll hold it or you'll just let it drop again."

"Yeah, Nelson's a mountie." Isabel must have shown ignorance of the term in her expression. "Canadian mounted police."

"Ah. My Victor…" and Creed almost turned sharply around at that. _My_ Victor? What the hell… but the child shrieked when his hand got the piece of apple away from her and he focused again.

"…is in de security line. Does consultation in big companies and den, if are problems, he is called to resolve dem. Says he has to, uh, wait… he has to analyse, diagnose, understand specifics, create a security system, implement, give formation and test. Oh, and is all, uh… what is de word in English… sigilous? You know, type of secret, so he can't talk about it."

Lyn's uh-huh was all but interested.

"So, he's like a spy or something?" Adela gushed.

He already hated that one.

"Bite the apple, not my fingers," he grumbled lightly to the child then eyed the pieces on the small plate. They should be bigger.

"That's so exciting!" The third chick, Pru, finally came to life. "Is it dangerous?"

"No… uh… I _think_ no. Victor always says is more trouble dan danger but… I don't know, you know. Security, for me, means dat problems can happen, and security problems…"

She let the chance of dangerous situations in the air and one of them, probably Lyn, breathed out forcefully.

"Yeah," Pru said warmly. "Nate is a mountie, too, and I always have my heart in my hands when there's trouble. There's always an asshole that can decide to get out the guns. And then he's always being called at any hour of day and night. It's not easy."

"My Victor can stay away for five or more weeks, 'miga. And I don't even know if he's in Canada or in China."

"Ouch."

" _Oh_!" Adela gasped, lowering her voice to a conspiratory level. "I see what you mean by danger. Five weeks away? Girl! No way I'd trust a guy like that. I love my Fred but I would not let him stay away not even for _one_ week if I didn't know where he was and with _who_ , if you know what I mean. You cannot trust a man that stays that far away. Uh-uh! You just look at Franny."

The freaking bitch! But this time, he held back the instinctive move to look back. He had decided to put all the pieces of apple on his open hand, and Lilia was now clearly more interested in playing with her food, chewing random pieces and random fingers.

"Della," Angie censored lightly. "You don't know anything about Isabel's husband."

"He's a man, isn't he? That's all anyone needs to know. There are enough bitches around preying on any willing man, and every living man is a willing man."

"So," Isabel droned out, "dis is… uhm… a man hunting area?"

Angie laughed. "Nothing that dramatic."

"It only takes one bitch," the sneering Lyn said, "with mobility. Whoever she gets her eyes on, ends in her bed."

"Just like _that_!" Pru snapped her fingers.

Obviously, this was because of their friend, the cheated-on Frances. One cheating jerk of a husband had just become the poster child for every man in the world.

"Okay, ladies," Angie cut in with a sigh. "Let's not blow things out of proportion. I don't know if you've heard about it, Isabel, but Franny's ex cheated on her with a woman…"

"Whore," Lyn breathed out with contempt.

"…who has a lof ot…"

"She gets around," Adela cut in, making Angie breathe with exasperation. "And I mean _seriously_ gets around. When she wants a guy, she gets him; so watch your back. Friendly warning, that's all."

A couple walking by Creed's table got his and Victoria's attention. They were younger than the other two couples already dancing by the stage but they stopped to ask Angie for a specific song before going over to the floor dance.

"I've got to take this to Dale, sorry. Here's the list you wanted. He knows most songs by these singers so you might as well start there to see if you like them. And these are the classics most people ask for."

"Thank you," Isabel said as the doc walked away. "And thank you, too. Is always good receive advice. Well, I have to go back to my Lilia Victoria. Was a great pleasure to meet you, Adela and uh…"

"Prudence Clemens," the quiet one said. "Nice to meet you too."

"Lynette."

Ha! Isabel's approach had failed to get one of the three surnames. He was definitely going to pester her about that failure.

"Good luck for the swollen feet. Well den, good night and see you some oder day. Bye, Angie!"

"Hey, where are you going?"

This time, Creed did look back. The doc had given the piece of paper with the request to her husband and was heading back to the table. Sensing what was about to happen and hoping to avoid it, he dropped the slobbered pieces of apple back on the plate and hurried to wipe his hand and the child's mouth, causing her to fuss.

"I'm going home," Isabel said with a shrug.

"But didn't you say you wanted a request?"

He got up, Lilia still fussing in his arms, and took a couple of steps towards his woman.

"Dat is for de next night, Angie! I don't know dis musics so I hav…"

"Nonsense! Why don't you just sing a song yourself? Dale is going to have a break soon, you could sing a couple of songs then."

He knew this was going to happen. The moment they'd first heard her sing, he knew they'd want her to do so regularly. He knew it! Holding Victoria with an arm, he embraced Isabel's waist with the other one. Isabel looked up at him and smiled, before looking back at Angie.

"No, is ok. I don't usually sing in public like dat. De oder night was just…"

She looked up at him again, her smile a bit coy this time and her ass pressing purposefully against his thigh. He tightened his grip on her body as her scent became musky, lustful.

"I wanted sing something to my Victor, foi só. He has been spectacular since we started preparing our move to here and I wanted do something special for him."

There she went again: _my_ Victor. What the hell did she think? They weren't in Portugal anymore.

"Oh, come on!" Adella whined from her seat. "You have the best voice… not that I don't like Dales'!"

Isabel's body was now securely glued to his side, her arm over his, her head leaning against his chest.

"Thanks, but maybe next time. Right now, we really need to go home. Lilia Victoria needs to go to bed before she gets uh… rabugenta. What's de word, 'mor?"

"Grumpy," and he took the chance to join the conversation and actually be friendly. "She out-screeches everyone when she's grumpy. Good lungs."

"Grumpy? That little angel? I can't imagine it," Angie said. "I've never seen any child spend an entire meal that quietly in a restaurant, and I'm here almost every evening!"

Isabel laughed at that, truly amused, and Victoria fussed some more in Creed's arm. The doc would soon hear how powerful the little baby's lungs were, but there was no need to fuel a scene now. He let go of Isabel and adjusted his grip on the child so she could chew on his fingers. Isabel reacted by putting an arm around his waist, a thumb stuck on the back pocket of his jeans.

"Dat is what she wants people to think, dat she's an angel."

"She's the devil," Creed added, and then Isabel's advice rang in his ears: he should show how his thoughts were mostly on his child and woman. In a whim, he decided to take a step back and let Isabel shine. "Takes after her Mamma."

He noticed her reaction immediately, like he'd just said something nasty, but then she laughed, perhaps a bit on purpose, and embraced his waist. What had happened?

"You didn't call me de devil for a long time, 'mor."

What was she talking about? He'd called her the freaking devil just the oth… Oh. Devil. Back in Portugal, Isabel had asked him if it was good or bad, when he said she was the devil, and it finally dawned on him that most people might not take being called 'devil' as something nice.

Eager to pick up the opening to clarify that 'devil' was to be seen as a compliment in their relationship, he almost answered that she hadn't been a devil lately but aborted the line at the last minute. It might be taken as metaphor for sex and insinuating she hadn't been sexy lately would not be good at all. So what was he to say? What?

Running out of time and his brain still empty of ideas, he told her to sing. She blinked, surprised, and lost the smile.

"Go on," he pressed. "New York."

The woman preferred to remain staring at him.

"I ain't heard ya sing that one in months!" He added, growling inside at her lack of appropriate reaction. He turned to Angie and the chicks, reaching for that social side he'd developed back in Lisbon. "She sings that one like a pro. Hell, she sings everything like a pro, don't ya, Nessie?"

"Uh…" Could she be a little less moronic? "I don't have de… de syntetiser to play along."

"And since when d'ya need music ta sing? Go on! I wanna hear ya."

"Okay," she finally said sheepishly. "When Dale finishes…"

Angie took care of that. When her husband finished the requested song, she called him over and motioned Isabel towards the stage, although she stopped to ask Dale if she could use his guitar. Then she sat on the stool and played a few random notes. Was she going to play the guitar to accompany herself? Creed couldn't recall ever having heard Sinatra's song on a guitar before, but she was good at adapting songs to both the piano and the guitar. He'd give her the benefit of doubt.

Creed sat down back at his table and Dale sat besides him. Wonderful.

"Does she compose?"

"No," he shot, annoyed. Then wondered if the woman could compose; he had no idea. What if it turned out she did later on? "She's been too busy t'get creative in the last couple o' years."

There, vague enough to cover all bases. Now if only she would start and kill the conversation!

On the stage, she was still fidgeting with the instrument. Finally, she looked up and cleared her throat.

"First of all, I want thank Dale Dalton because he let me steal his place. Second… my husband has a request and apparently my voice is part of de request. I'm sorry I don't have de correct company but… here goes!"

She played some chords, enough to give the tune away, then repented and readjusted the guitar, took a deep breath, let the air out slowly. Go on, what was she waiting for? Finally she started seriously, just when Creed realised the place was mostly silent. The melody was fairly low, but had speed and spirit. All that fidgeting must have made the public curious. Had it been on purpose, all the delay, in order to hook the folks?

"Start spreading de news," her voice was too loud in relation to the instrument but it made no nevermind. He preferred her voice to the dumb guitar anyway. "I'm leaving today."

She didn't really play while she was singing, outside a few chords. He supposed she had fidgeted that long with the guitar simply because she was improvising an adaptation.

"I wanna wake up in a city

that doesn't sleep"

The woman had gotten more confident by the time she got to the chorus. At least she was smiling now… although Victoria was starting to fuss more consistently. He rocked her some, turning her back to the stage, and hushed her.

"If I can

make it there

I'll make it

anywhere"

Isabel looked at him and he was surprised by her old fiery gaze. He hadn't been the focus of one since she'd last sang in public, back in Portugal. He hadn't realised he'd missed it till now. Hell, he hadn't even realised he liked it till now. Pressing her little hands against his shoulder, Victoria complained with an exasperated 'nyah'. New word on the way perhaps?

"Hush, lil' devil," he whispered on her ear and distracting her for a split second. "Pappa's told ya before: ya need t'get used ta noise."

"Dese little town blues

are melting away"

Victoria threatened tears, maybe even some loud wailing, and he felt aggravated. He wanted more! He wanted Isabel's old expression of absolute devotion. She hadn't looked at him that way since before Lilia's birth. The week before, she'd finally sang his song again, the one where she died in his arms, but she hadn't looked devotedly at him. When she'd been fertile and he'd given her orgasm after orgasm, she'd looked at him sexily, hungrily, contently… but not madly in love. It gnawed at him. He wanted that gaze and he wanted it right here, in public, for everyone to see how much she belonged to him, how much she wanted to belong to him.

"New York, New Yooooooooooooork!"

Isabel let her voice boom, hard and long, and Victoria started crying in earnest. It was the end of it: the woman cut short the last syllable and hurried to his side as the public clapped enthusiastically. He let her take the child, whose head she covered with a blanket in a vain attempt to protect her from the roaring noise. It angered him, both that the noise was upsetting his child and that he could not protect her from the discomfort, if not actual pain, of those people's racket. An old voice in his head grumbled they should all die, even if that wouldn't help his baby girl develop the resistance to noise she needed to, and then Isabel looked straight at him.

It wasn't the exact same look he had been longing for, but it was the closest he'd gotten to since he'd left his woman and child in December. Thankfulness. Not that mild 'thanks' look she often awarded him, but a wildly passionate 'thank you' that beat any words. It was that close to becoming the look of devotion he missed so much.

"Thank you for ask me to sing, but sorry, I think you chose de wrong music." Something clicked inside his head. "I take her outside, ok? Can you pay and bring her bag, please?"

He watched her hurry out of the restaurant. He'd asked her to sing in public, that's why she had looked at him so heatedly. Because he had… Was it a coincidence? No, it couldn't… Did it mean all he had to do was ask her to sing in public and she'd be her old devoted self again? Not that she'd looked devoted just yet but…

He suddenly realised Angie Dalton was talking to him.

"What?"

"I asked if that was why Isabel didn't want to sing, because Lilia doesn't like loud noise."

"Yeah," he almost growled, grabbing the baby bag and the fabric doll forgotten on the table, " _Victoria_ doesn't like nuthin' loud."

Creed remembered to excuse himself at the last minute, even threw in a 'good night' before heading to the counter to pay. He handed out his card before the woman could say a value.

"Your wife sings wonderfully," Creed looked at the woman and realised it was the owner, Lena Moreno. "We have karaoke night on Saturdays, in case you're interested. It's mostly school kids till about nine, but after that it gets more mature."

Aggravated but aware he must be civil, he simply said Victoria didn't like loud singing and clapping.

"Victoria… You mean your baby?" Yeah, who else would he mean? He didn't say anything though, his expression must say it all. "My daughter babysits, in case you need someone. If you want to interview her, she helps as a waitress at lunch time on Saturdays and Sundays. Here's your receipt and thank you for choosing us."

Not holding the growl this time, though it was low enough not to be easily heard, Creed went out. The nerve of the woman, offering his daughter's services as a babysitter! As if Isabel needed any help.

In the car, Victoria was back to her good mood and called out to him.

"Papá," Isabel corrected the child. "Não é dá, é papá. Papá."

His bad mood softened. Everything was either nah, dah or dah-dah for the girl. Isabel was wasting her breath.

"Dah-ah!"

He opened the back door and threw the baby bag in.

"Is this what ya want?"

He showed her the doll and the girl laughed, but when he glanced up, he met Isabel's gaze. Glowing happiness, and all because he'd told her to sing for him. Not devotion, though. Not yet. A sudden bang of aggravation had him scowling.

"Yer father died a few months ago," he growled, feeling vindicated to see the glowing happiness fade from his woman's face even as its disappearance annoyed him. Look devoted, damn you! "Not when ya was a kid. Get yer cover straight!"

"Sorry," she said softly. "I correct next… uh… I mean, I say I mixed de English and dat was my… my padrinho?"

"Godfather," he grumbled before closing the door and sitting at the wheel.

Isabel followed his example and got in.

"Right. I say my godfader died when I was little, dat I mixed de words."

"And ya didn't get all the surnames either," he growled, annoyance becoming a… Creed frowned at the sudden thought that he felt like throwing a tantrum.

"Yes," Isabel admitted lightly, "but I got more important things: Lynette is married wid Nelson, dat is a mountie. If you can find a list of de local mounties, you discover deir surname. Prudence Clement…"

"Clemens," he corrected automatically, while the conscience of his tantrumish mood gave him a greater level of control over it.

"Isso. She's single, but she is togeder wid anoder mountie, Nate. Can't be dat many mounties in a small town like dis, right? You can check de background of all de mounties so you know what we can expect of Nate and Nelson, and you discover deir surnames dat way. Easy, right?"

Isabel's voice was replaying in his memory even as he heard her news: one reason toddlers throw tantrums is because they want something we haven't given them. The moment Victoria realises that tantrums won't force us to give in to her whims, she'll stop doing them. Did that mean he felt tantrumish himself because he wanted something he couldn't have? Because… because he wanted Isabel to look at him devotedly and she refused to do so. It made sense. However, giving in to the frustration and aggravation wouldn't make her loo…

"Victor?"

"Huh?"

"I thought was easy for you discover de names of de local mounties."

"Oh, yeah, it's no problem." Forcing his mind back to the topic, he remembered something that could be important. "Mounties don't stick around a place fer long. They get sent ta different areas o' the country every two t' three years, or somethin' like that."

"Oh. Dat means you don't want invest in dem, because dey will go away soon?"

He shrugged. Lilia would be nearly four in five years, but until then she might have to socialise with the Mountie boy. And anyway, he wanted to have a good picture of as many people as possible. If Isabel was going to be a regular at Lena's, then knowing all the other regulars was essential.

"It's probably smarter t' get a background check fer every Mountie, no matter who they're married to."

Isabel breathed out, a mix of relief and light-heartedness. The sound knotted his insides and he had no idea why.

"Adela Astings is involved wid a guy named Fred," she said thoughtfully.

"I know," he grumbled. "I'm the one who told ya that."

"You remember our neighbours, Patrick and Leslie?"

They'd stop by with a welcome cake the previous week. Water-cress cake. Nearly vegetarian hippies, full of ecology, green mantras and sickly-sweet friendliness. The guy was a retired push-over eager to roll over whenever he imagined his wife commanded it, and she was one of those well-intentioned not-so-old ladies who don't stop till they've changed the world to fit their particular fancy. Neighbours from hell, if she asked him.

"Yeah, what about 'em?"

"Dey have a son named Fred. He finished college in Vancouver and returned to Creston last year. He works wid computers, I think. At least his course was about computers and he is working from home, in de internet."

"Will ya get t'the point already?"

"Maybe _he_ is de Fred of Adela. Leslie said Fred didn't visit because he went to Creston to get his girlfriend and take her in a surprise trip to hike in… uh… trail of something."

Now that she mentioned it, yes, he remembered the couple mentioning a son who was out with his girlfriend.

"Could be a different Fred."

"How many Freds take deir girlfriends to do hikes?" She scoffed. "Want a bet?"

Creed grinned, knowing exactly what he was going to bet.

"What're ya bettin'?"

She hummed thoughtfully and he glanced at her. His aggravation was melting away as lust set in.

"I bet a hike in the woods," he said. "With a tent, so Lilia can have a nap and you can rest yer feet."

Isabel laughed and eyed him hungrily. She knew damn well her feet would be the only thing resting at such a pause in hiking.

"I bet de same, but Lilia Victoria stays home."

Huh? What?

"Whatchya talkin' about?"

"She's growing up, Victor. You didn't notice dat she woke up when we were spending all de condoms you bought yesterday. She needs to start sleeping in her room."

Yeah, it made sense, he guessed.

"I think is time we think about choosing a good babysitter dat we can trust."

It pissed him off and he spit it out before he could think twice:

"Ya're that bad a mother ya can't handle a little baby all by yerself?"

"Cala-te, homem!" And he did shut up, calling himself stupid. He'd just walked right into the fire. "I stayed wid my daughter day and night during three months and you didn't give shit about us! Three months, Victor! So you shut up wid dat because you know very well is a lie."

She was never going to let it go, dammit!

"And _you_ wait. You wait until she is walking and you want sex during day, or you want go out to bars or to de forest, and you can't because of her. Den you say you want a babysitter, but den is too late. We need to choose a babysitter _now_. Because now you are here, and when I need someone to watch Lilia, you do it, but when you go to work, I stay alone. If I need help… who can I trust to stay wid Lilia, huh? _No one_! We need to choose a babysitter when we are here de two, so we can spy her. You can watch her when she thinks she is alone and we can know of certain if we can trust her. And you can smell if she lies and if… I don't know, you use your high senses and guarantee I can trust her alone wid my daughter."

Creed remained silent, chewing the whole idea. At his side, the woman breathed out her anger violently.

"You _know_ dat we will need to have a babysitter, right?"

He didn't see a pressing need, no. At least not while he was around. Isabel could very well remain safe in the house when he went away on jobs, it wasn't as if he'd really stay away that long, five to seven days in the worst case scenario.

"Victor?"

But if he said what he really thought, she'd just say she had needed a babysitter in those first three months and that no way was she going to be stuck in the house again without a helping hand. That she wouldn't be abandoned and forced into a prison again for his sake. He knew she'd say it. She'd used a similar line a few times before.

"That Lena Moreno woman just tried ta…" He nearly said force her babysitting-daughter down his throat but bit his tongue at the last minute. "She said her daughter works as a babysitter."

"Rosie? Yes, Angie says we can't go wrong wid her."

Huh… What?

"Ya've been lookin' fer a babysitter behind my back?!"

"No! Of course not. But when I went to dat doctor appointment wid Angie, dat _you_ _forced_ me to go, she asked me if we know people dat babysit, in case we need, and she said Rosie is de best option dat she knows."

Creed growled and once more spat the first thing to cross his mind:

"I ain't _your_ Victor."

"Hun?"

"This ain't Portugal. Wives back there may call deir husbands their assholes fer all I care, but we ain't there anymore so ya put an end t'that ' _my_ Victor' crap, got it? I ain't no one's Victor."

She breathed deeply in, then tersely out. Good. It meant she was going to control her temper. Unless, obviously, she was too aggravated and blew up anyway.

" _I_ _know_ you are not my Victor. _I know_ I don't own you. _I know_ I don't control you. _I. know_. But everyone else is supposed to think you are my Victor. I thought dat _dat_ is de cover. And I heard women here talk about husbands wid my Patty, my Fred, my asshole. So women here say dat just like in Portugal."

Like hell they did!

 _I love my Fred…_

His claws slid out and he snarled at the dark road.

"And is not de word 'my' dat is de problem! If Della had said 'my Fred doesn't want me go out wid friends widout him'," she mimicked the chick's voice with an exagerated girly tone and Creed growled. "Would you still say she thinks she owns him? No. Is not 'my Fred' dat says who controls who, is de rest of de conversation. We have to look de perfect couple because of Lilia Victoria, and dat means we have to show de world dat I don't control you, and you don't control me, but go about saying 'my Victor' and 'my Isabel' doesn't say dat one controls de oder, got it?"

Snarling silently, he distinguished up ahead the open gate that marked the beginning of their property.

"Look, you are angry right now, ok? Think about it and tomorrow you tell me if I have permission to say 'my Victor' in public or if I can only say 'my man' or 'my husband' or 'my whatever your want', ok? But please call me 'my Isabel'. Is important. You know everything about security and fights and danger, but I know how a normal community works and I know dis is important. I don't say 'my Victor' if you really don't want, but den we have to find anoder expression dat you accept. In relation to me, call me 'my Isabel', 'my Nessie', 'my wife', 'my'… 'my woman'… Whatever. But use 'my'. Like I said, dis is important to asstable our cover story."

Ass what? Wait…

"Establish! Not ass…" He scoffed. " _Establish_ our cover story."

The woman looked out her window and sighed with some exasperation before repeating the word.

As Creed parked the car in the garage, the woman still sulking, hot anger grabbed his insides and he almost broke the damned driving wheel in his hands.

"I was so, _so_ happy when you said you wanted dat I sing to you," her voice sounded hurt and it deflated the anger.

It was a complaint, true, but it reminded Creed of his breakthrough earlier. She didn't as much as imagine he'd asked her to sing simply because he had had no idea what to say at the time. It had been nothing more than a change of topic. He had forbidden her from singing in public and she'd been happy that he'd asked her to sing despite that earlier prohibition. Probably because she had thought he wanted to hear her sing. He could use that right now.

He grabbed her wrist and she looked sharply at him.

"Sing fer me." She frowned in surprise. "I wanna hear ya sing fer me."

She sighed softly, shook her head in mild submission.

"Oh rua do…"

"No!" The woman jumped in his hands. "Ya're singin' it all wrong! Don't sing like ya're sad, sing like ya mean it. Like ya mean every freakin' word."

Her features softened.

"Oh, meu amor," she said softly, or better yet, sadly. "I can only sing what I feel and I feel sad and tired right now. I'm sorry…"

She sang what she felt?

The woman unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned her head on his chest, whispered another sorry.

She could only sing what she felt.

Then that meant… she had felt devotion to him once, and now she didn't anymore.

He grabbed her by her shoulders and forced her to look at him.

"D'ya still love me?"

"What?"

"Answer me, woman! D'ya love me or not?"

Sadness gave way to anger. He preferred her angry to sad, anyway.

"Why am I here, Victor, if I don't love you? Of course I love you, don't be stupid!"

"Ya don't look at me the same way as before."

"Oh, why you think dat is, hun?"

She always went back to the same, damnit!

"I DIDN'T MEAN TO!"

They both looked back at the startled child in the back seat. Eyes open wide, she blinked and twisted her little chin, but didn't make a sound.

"I didn't meant to," he whispered, hoarse, before glaring at the woman. "I been doin' everythin' I can ta make it up to you. Why won't ya just let it go, damn ya!"

"Is not _my_ fault, Victor. I feel like I feel because of what happened, even if you didn't mean it. And I know you are trying to compensate, I know dat you _are_ compensating."

There was a measure of relief in hearing her say that, even if it didn't fix the problem at hand.

"But I still feel like I feel, meu amor. Is like a… a… ferida, how you say dat?"

"Herida? Wound."

"Is like a big wound. Takes time to disappear. I'm sorry."

The thought slipped out unchecked.

"Some wounds don't heal."

She offered a slight smile.

"De doctor says dis wound is healing well."

It didn't look that way from where he was standing. Whenever he said something she didn't like, she immediately mentioned the topic.

"Big wounds leave scars."

"Oh, I know about scars, 'mor. After some years, dey disappear and den, one day, you don't even remember de wound happened."

He doubted she'd ever forget about it.

Isabel lifted a hand to cup his face and he immediately escaped her touch. She should know by now he didn't like it. One thing was when they were fucking, another completely different was…

She sighed.

"I love you, Victor, but I told you before: if I didn't believe dat you didn't have any intention of ab… dat you really didn't have intention to do it. If I didn't believe you, I wouldn't have accepted to be wid you like dis."

Yeah, he knew. She'd said it a couple of times back in Portugal.

"But your actions still made a big wound and… don't open de wound again. You are doing everything to close it, so please don't open it again. I am loyal to my family. To you and to Lilia. You know dat. You know dat when I say dat _we_ need a babysitter we can trust, den I really believe dat is important for Lilia and for us, for you and me. You _know_ dat."

Yeah, he knew, but it didn't mean he had to like it, nor did it mean he had to agree with what she _thought_ was necessary.

"Don't try to make me a prisoner, 'mor. I was so happy wid you in Portugal… all I want is dat happiness back. Is all I want."

She didn't want it more badly than he did!

"But is in your hands, you know. My happiness, like before you… My happiness is in your hands."

He had a second epiphany.

Isabel slid out of the car and went over to get Victoria out of her seat, while Creed watched them.

If her happiness was in his hands, then all he had to do was… ask her to sing in public? Because that's what she had done in Portugal, when she used to sing devotedly. She chatted with the neighbours and she sang. If he could make sure she had neighbours to chat with and a place where she could sing in public like she had tonight… It would be just like before, wouldn't it?

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If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	47. Creston: Comforting and Babysitting

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

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 **47\. Creston: Comforting and Babysitting**

Isabel woke up with the sound of Lilia's crying coming from the baby radio and sat up in bed, checked the time. Two thirty-four in the morning. She glanced to the other side of the bed, empty, and sighed.

Victor had had another nightmare and taken off about two hours earlier. There was a pattern to his bad dreams: they always hit a couple of hours after he'd gone to sleep, and once they started they went on for two or three nights in a row.

Walking through the corridor, she tried to imagine what the dreams might be about. She was almost sure they were memories. He always reacted like a hurt animal, refusing her touch as if he couldn't believe there could be any comfort in human contact. Then he went out into the woods and returned shortly before dawn for some cuddling, though he was going for sex more and more these days.

"Dah-ah," she heard Lilia shriek angrily as she reached her bedroom door.

Victor must be there with her. And indeed he was, rocking her silently. He spared her a resented glance as Lilia squirmed in his arms, trying to reach for her Mamma, then handed her over.

"Queres leitinho, não é, meu amor?"

Surly, the man squatted as Isabel sat down on the rocking chair and started nursing the child. Isabel had noticed he was a bit jealous at night, when Lilia woke up hungry and rejected him. He understood perfectly well that the child wanted her mother because she wanted to be breastfed, but he couldn't hide how much he resented that rejection, no matter how temporary.

Back when Lilia had been sleeping in the crib in their room, it had been different. Isabel would take her to bed and lean on him as he embraced her. It was a way for him to participate, rather than look in from afar, cast out. But now that Lilia was spending the nights in her own room, he was very definitely cast out of his daughter's affection. At least in his eyes.

"I think we need a… what is de word in English?"

He didn't say anything and Isabel switched to Portuguese.

"One of those long benches that have storage room. We could put it up against a wall and I'd fix some cushions both for the seat and for the back. Then we could sit side by side and I could lean onto you. Isn't it a good idea, love?"

The man shrugged and glared somberly at the empty crib.

It annoyed her to no end! Isabel wanted to be able to comfort him the way he had comforted her in the past, the way he still did, even if on rare occasions, these days. But he never let her! She had twice reached out to him, the moment he'd woken up, gasping and sweating, and he had fled her touch as if she had meant to harm him. And he became so enraged at her, too! Tonight, she'd remained quietly in bed, pretending she was asleep. It seemed to be what he wanted from her, but God, it cut her up inside! There he was, suffering next to her and she was unable to help him. If only he would let her comfort him!

A sudden whim had Isabel get up and come over to him, kneel down at his side.

"Whatchya doin'?"

For once, surprise distracted him from his dark thoughts.

"I am too used to feel you next to me," she said in English for the simple reason she knew he preferred her to speak in that language. "I cannot feel comfortable in dat chair, alone."

With you glaring in front of me, she omitted.

"And Victoria probably misses your presence, too."

He embraced her awkwardly at first, but then his grip strengthened. Not the usual 'you are mine' grip, though. He nested his face on the nook of her neck, breathing deeply in, and she could have sworn she felt a slight vibration every time he breathed in. Why wouldn't the stupid man let her comfort him properly, damn it!

Soon, though, Lilia was done. These days, Isabel knew exactly when her daughter wasn't hungry anymore: she stopped suckling and started chewing. Usually, Isabel put an end to the meal immediately. If the child had been chewing while feeding, then she'd have had to suffer through it; but since she only chewed after she was done eating…

Of course, tonight was a different matter. She believed that Victor was being comforted right now, and if she stopped the meal, he would remain hurting alone, almost abandoned. She couldn't have that. If he didn't let her comfort him in any other way, she'd at least do it this way. So she clenched her own teeth as Lilia's tiny ones ground her nipple.

"What's wrong, my Nesi?"

"Nada," she lied and regretted it instantly, groaning against his light growl. "I'm sorry, is just…"

But he was looking down at her chest and, before she could think what excuse to give, he had slid his hand over her breast, gently pushing Lilia's mouth away.

"Don't ya hurt yer Mamma, girl."

Surprised, the child forgot to complain against the interruption and, as her Pappa allowed her to chew on his little finger, she had no real reason to get cross.

"She ain't hungry," he said in a low frowning voice. "Why did ya let her keep on bitin'? Ya never do that."

Isabel shrugged and remained silent. Fortunately, he didn't press the issue.

In her arms, Lilia closed her beautiful eyes. Eventually, the chewing lost its energy and came to a quiet halt. Victor drew his hand away and nuzzled Isabel's neck, smelled her deeply.

"What's wrong?"

"Why you ask dat?" She said, cautiously.

"Ya always take Victoria back to the crib as soon as she's done eatin'."

Yes, she did, didn't she? She wanted the child to learn to fall asleep by herself. What excuse could she give which wouldn't be spotted as a lie?

"D'ya miss havin' her in our room?"

"A little," she admitted truthfully. "You?"

She felt him shrug and took it as a yes.

"She has ta learn ta be autonomous," he grumbled. "Ya're right about that. Sleepin' in her own room is important, makes no nevermind how you feel 'bout it."

Isabel killed a smirk. He probably meant 'how _we_ feel about it', since he was the one who had grumbled the most about the change.

"Yes, I know," she said, getting up to return the sleeping baby to her crib.

Victor stood by her side and they both watched the girl for a few moments. She looked so peaceful, so perfect. Then Victor's hand slid down to her hip and Isabel leaned on him before they both headed back to their own bed.

"Com'ere."

He made her roll till she was facing him and pulled the edge of her nightdress to reveal her breast.

"Look at this! A little more and she'd have drawn blood. Why didn't ya stop her?"

But he kissed the hurt nipple without waiting for an answer. Gently, he suckled on it, not hard enough to draw milk, though. It felt good, the caress of his tongue. So good. She closed her eyes to savour the feeling, a little voice grumbling she was the one who should be comforting the man, not the other way around. But the nipple was sore, and such gentleness on her man's side was not a daily occurrence, and she was sleepy…

xXx

Isabel snapped awake with the sound of Lilia's crying coming from the baby radio and sat up in bed, checked the time. It wasn't yet six.

"I'll go an' get her," Victor yawned.

"Thanks."

Isabel closed her eyes for a moment. When Lilia was sleeping in their bedroom, she only ever woke up twice a night; now it was three and four times, and sometimes she ate very little. Then again, the move was recent – barely a week ago – the child was still getting used to spending the entire night alone.

When Victor came back, Lilia was laughing, which proved she wasn't really hungry. Nevertheless, she quickly reached for Mamma and some milk while Victor snuggled next to them.

Isabel yawned and felt sleepiness take over as the child fed.

"I think I'm going to sleep a little instead of train, 'mor."

"Sure. I gotta test the cameras one last time, anyway."

He had spent the weekend setting them up, the hidden cameras. The hallways and the rooms downstairs had had hidden cameras since the beginning, aiming at doors which could be used for breaking-ins, but those cameras were only switched on when they left the house, not to mention they didn't record unless they detected movement. The new ones were to be switched only while the babysitter was around and they covered every angle of every room. Once more, they didn't record unless they detected movement, but they could be used to see what was going on at any time through apps on the phone.

Thankfully, Victor hadn't disliked the girl. An apparently responsible fifteen-year-old of average height, she was soft-spoken but assertive. The man had particularly liked the teenager's clothes: simple, sensible and with few accessories. It meant she would focus on the job instead of worrying about the futilities chicks usually lose their heads over, he had explained. On the other hand, Victor had been suspicious of the girl's eagerness to babysit for them.

"She was holding back," he'd grumbled on their way home. "But she was way too excited wi'the idea o' babysittin' regularly. I don't think it's normal fer a kid ta be dyin' ta work after school."

She couldn't babysit during school hours, obviously, but Isabel had been happy to hear her timetable was only from 8.30 to 4.30. She had a bike to move around, and she said she could go from either her school or home to their house in about half an hour, in good weather, but would need a ride home if she were to babysit until late at night.

"If she has to help in de restaurant, maybe she just prefers anything to working wid her mom. I got de impression dey aren't best friends. Did you notice when Rosie said 'late at night' and Lena jumped immediately wid her bedtime? De girl wants distance and independence, if you ask me."

It had ben particularly obvious when Isabel had asked her if she was free on Monday evening. Victor would be on a trip and she needed someone to keep an eye on Lilia Victoria while she practised for the choir.

"I can't focus on de songs when Lilia Victoria is alone wid me," she'd explained.

The girl's eyes had shone but then her mother had mentioned that Monday was the fourth anniversary of Lena's Place and she would need Rosie for a special event. The teen hadn't been able to hide a slight slumping at the prospect.

"That's ok. I can reschedule my trip to either Tuesday or Wednesday."

Rosie's smile had widened as she said she was free on both days, and that Tuesday was great. Could even make it both on Tuesday and Wednesday, if necessary.

Isabel had liked her and was itching to go through the first babysitting experience. She was also looking forward to confirming her suspicions about the girl's relationship with the mother, but above all, she wanted that first day to go perfect. Since Victor had such a hard time trusting anyone, she wanted him to at least like her. It wouldn't be difficult, though, that much Isabel was confident. Rosie was smart and she'd learn quickly how she should act to fall in Victor's good graces. In fact, she seemed to have scored points five minutes into the interview.

Isabel had always presented her daughter as Lilia Victoria, even if Victor only ever called her Victoria. However, all their recent acquaintances dropped the second name in favour of the first. Obviously, it annoyed the man. Rosie had followed the pattern and had greeted the baby with a smiley 'hi, Lilia'. As expected, Lilia had frown a sulk at the stranger and then had hid her face on Isabel's neck.

"She's shy wid strangers," Isabel had said.

Victor, though, had taken Lilia from Isabel's arms and had told her off with a mild "ya ain't 'fraid o' Rosie, are ya, Victoria?" He'd been looking at the child, trying to draw her out of her distrust, so he had missed the teenager's quick glance at Isabel and back at Victor.

"Wait, I have something she'll like," Rosie had said as she went over to a room and came back with a fabric puppet. "Hey, Lilia Victoria, do you like bunnies? Look at this pretty bunny I got here. Isn't it cute, honey?"

It had been that little detail which had won over Isabel.

"I have a couple of animal fabric puppets," she'd explained. "Kids of all ages like them. They're all made of organic cotton and I wash them regularly with eco-friendly detergents, 100% percent biodegradable."

Isabel was sure that both details had won over Victor big time, too. He'd even been polite when he'd asked if Victoria could hold on to the puppet through dinner. After spending some time in both Victor's and Isabel's hands, Lilia finally started playing with it.

"If she associates Rosie's smell to us, it'll be much easier," he had explained.

Nevertheless, he'd spent the entire weekend making sure there wasn't a single blind spot in the surveillance of any room. Better safe than sorry, he'd grumbled a few times through the drawn out process of setting every camera perfectly.

"I'm gettin' hungry," the man yawned at her side in bed. "I'm goin' down ta fix myself some eggs while ya finish. D'ya want some too? It'll sustain ya way better than just milk an' bread. Ya're breastfeedin', ya need ta feed yerself properly."

He said pretty much the same thing every morning. Sometimes she gave in, but she simply wasn't hungry today.

"Just milk, 'mor. I eat a steak in de bread later."

He liked it when she had meaty snacks like that, and since she liked a cold slice of roasted beef in heated home-baked bread, it was the perfect snack for most mornings.

* * *

Isabel couldn't focus on her singing. Unfortunately, she couldn't interrupt herself.

Victor had been adamant about keeping Rosie downstairs. He didn't want her scent anywhere near their bedrooms till she had proved herself, not to mention till Lilia had fully accepted her. It might corrupt Lilia's sense of safety, and he was not about to allow his baby girl to spend the nights feeling insecure. Isabel had agreed and had set up a play station in the living room.

Rosie had arrived at about five, straight from school. Victor was already cooped up in his cabin, a few feet behind the main house. Now that it had been transformed into a security room, there were plans to build a second one to be used as a cross between a hunting den and an arsenal of sorts. She'd let him fool around with that without any comments.

Having been brought up by perfect hostesses, Isabel had put the teenager at ease, offering her a hearty snack of sandwiches, cake and fresh fruit juice and making sure she ate at least one of the several offerings.

"So, how was de big birthday of de restaurant, yesterday?"

"The anniversary?" She'd shrugged as she gulped down a cheese and ham sandwich, a glass of orange juice in the hand. "It was ok. There's this year-long promotion, but mum will tell you all about it next time you stop by. I'd probably forget half the details."

Then she'd taken her to the den and had sat down next to Lilia.

"Because she's shy," Isabel had explained.

Rosie hadn't commented, probably because Lilia had preferred to play with her alphabet blocks suspiciously away from the new acquaintance. Isabel herself was a bit vexed that Lilia was avoiding even her. She had expected the child to welcome a game with Mamma and to slowly allow Rosie to join in. She wasn't sure what to do for a moment.

Hitting a block distractedly against the rug, a slight frown on her pretty face, the child observed the stranger with an annoyed pout. Isabel would have found the sight endearing at any other time. Ah, an idea!

"I'll be right back."

Lilia whined a complaint when she saw Isabel move away and, the moment she left the room, she started crying fretfully. Isabel jogged to the music room and got a guitar. The girl's crying intensified: Rosie must be trying to calm her down. Back to the den, Isabel was careful to sit between Rosie and her baby girl, further soothing her with a kiss and a hug.

"Lilia likes music," Isabel explained. "So I thought I could play a little."

Without further ado, she plucked a short, lively melody then allowed the child to play with the strings for a bit. She loved fooling around with the guitar and the keyboard.

"Uh… I heard… I mean, Frances said you sing really well."

Isabel got Lilia on her lap then played a few random notes to avoid answering immediately. She had regretted singing in public that first night. Not that she hadn't enjoyed it, but it never ended well, did it? Not with the folks clapping and frightening her baby girl.

"I had lessons," she ended up saying, striking the strings in three quick successions, flamenco style. Lilia loved that technique and slapped the strings in an energetic immitation.

"Singing lessons?" There was a degree of excitement which gave Isabel a hint about the girl's ambitions. "What? Like in a choir or…?"

It was typical for a lot of teenagers, wasn't it? To wish to become a singing star while parents dismissed the wild dreaming and wanted them to focus in worthy careers. It was a cliché, almost.

"Yes, I sang in a choir, but I also learned to play de piano and de piano teacher teached me how to sing, too. She was very strict and didn't like working wid pop music or stuff like dat. She was a lyric singer."

"Lyric singer?"

"Yeah, you know, like Maria Callas, Andrea Bocelli, Sarah Brightman, Placido Domingo, Montserrat Caballe…" Isabel stopped as the girl's expression made it obvious those names meant nothing to her. "Like singing opera."

"Ah! I don't li… I mean, I don't… Uh… I like country music."

Yeah, Isabel had guessed she was into pop or something similar. She was probably one of those who have a very limited musical horizon but are so taken up by what they do know, they don't bother to explore other types of music. But perhaps she was being mean.

"Maybe some jazz? Latina? Hip-hop? Rock? Pop?"

The girl shrugged.

"I like pop, but country is way better. I mean, Shania Twain is great, and Nelly Furtado, and… oh, Avril Lavigne… Do you know she sang with Shania Twain when she was _fifteen_? I mean, _fifteen_! And, okay, she's not exactly a country singer and I don't really like her songs nor anything, but, I mean, she sang in a _real_ concert with _Shania_ _Twain_ when she was _fifteen_."

Oh, yeah. Die hard fan. But the kid was only fifteen, after all, and that's an age to be a die hard fan of something. Isabel plucked a lazy melody. The instrument was sorely out of tune by now, thanks to the baby's grabbing and pulling of the strings, but that was not a problem. This guitar was to be sacrificed into the girl's toy. Her very own first guitar.

"So… you sing?"

The girl blushed and shrugged 'a bit'.

"I know dat a lot of singers start wid singing in choirs."

The girl rolled her eyes then checked herself.

"I don't like that kind of muisc," she said quietly. "I like… what I really… I want to write my own songs."

She said it in a whisper.

"You play a musical instrument?"

She shrugged again.

"Dale said he could teach me but he's a terrible teacher and, besides, I don't even have a guitar and mum says that she won't pay for stuff that'll only distract me from school and…"

Another shrug.

"Babysitting doesn't distract from school?"

The girl scoffed.

"That's different. 'Real work' making 'real money' is okay for my mum. As if musicians don't have a real work. I mean, look at Dale: that's his job, right? And he makes money, doesn't he? But my mum's like that. Music isn't a 'real job'."

That explained why she was eager to swap restaurant part-time job for babysitting. Isabel got the impression another two or three sessions of babysitting and Rosie might be asking her for lessons. She liked the idea. But if the girl did ask her for lessons, she'd have to talk to her mother. Better to start preparing arguments for that conversation. But in the meantime…

"Come here, Rosie. Play wid de strings a bit too."

The teen complied but Lilia didn't like it. For some minutes, the game consisted of Rosie plucking an occasional string and Lilia trying to hit her hand with an angry 'nah', but as Isabel laughed and kissed the child, as she helped her mock-slap the teen's hand away, clapping and celebrating the occasional success, the child's sulk morphed into excited giggles. Soon, the guitar was forgotten and Lilia was crawling after Rosie's hand, intent on hitting it. Or biting it, which seemed to be more practical for the child.

The ice had been effectively broken and Isabel decided it was time to give the two some alone time. It was almost five thirty when she first left the room. She stopped in the hall, outside the door, but Lilia noticed her absence and she returned. It was half an hour of coming in and going out, each time a little longer, till Lilia stopped calling out for her.

It was exactly six o'clock when she sat down at the synthetiser. She sat for some five minutes, listening to Rosie and her baby girl, before playing some random scales. Then she stopped and listened some more, envying Victor, who was watching everything with the cameras. She played a few more scales, then forced herself to sing a bit, even if mind and ears were focused on something else.

At quarter to seven, she gave it up, even if she had asked the teenager to watch Lilia for two hours, and joined them. Lilia was busy exploring the puppets the girl had brought along, and Rosie was just sitting on the floor, her back against the sofa, watching attentively.

"Would you like to have dinner wid us?"

The girl jumped up, startled, and then she refused the offer, since her mother was expecting her at half past. Isabel got her money out.

"Uh… I didn't really babysit for the two hours, Mrs. Kredall."

She loved the sound of it, Mrs. Kredall. It sounded so well-married and mother of family and respectable and… It sounded marvelous!

"Ah, não, Rosie! You were here during de two hours, weren't you? I only stayed wid you because I know Lilia. She was going to cry and make a tantrum if I didn't stay until she was comfortable. Next time will be different because she already knows you."

"Ok but… uh… you didn't have much time to practise."

"Oh, I have time tomorrow, don't worry."

"If you need my help…" she said it shyly, almost ashamed of selling herself. Curiously, though, she didn't really get up from the sofa.

Isabel smiled that it would depend on Victor.

"If he didn't finish his business today, can I call you directly?"

The girl got her phone out immediately.

"Can you text me? I switch off my phone when I'm in class, you see, but I check my messages all the time and I'll call you ASAP. Oh, and if you give me your number, I can text you my availability, like weekly or something, so whenever you need some help… especially at weekends. Any time, just let me know."

"Of course. But are you certain is ok? I was in de impression dat you helped in de restaurant at dinner."

Rosie rolled her eyes.

"Only when I'm not babysitting. Kristal, Frances' daughter, she usually stays with her grandparents, but they always go out on Fridays, so I'm always..." Her eyes widened. "Uh… If you ever need someone to stay with Lilia on Friday evenings, I could talk to Frances. Mum and her are good friends, so Kristal sometimes stays with me at our house, not at Frances's. If you and Frances are ok with it, I could watch the two there. You know, they could play together and everything; it would be great for them. Oh, and I'll make a reduced rate since I'm not… uh… I mean, since Kristal does half my work… I mean, playing… uh… _if_ you need… you know."

It would be perfect to forge a connection to Frances.

"Seems a good idea," Isabel smiled brightly. "You babysit many children?"

"Not many. Kristal is every week, but she's a great kid and Frances is like an aunt to me. And I also babysit Willow Sherman regularly. His father is a mountie; the family arrived in Creston just two years ago. Amber, Willow's mother, she doesn't work but she doesn't like going shopping with little kids. You know, I-want tantrums, so I usually stay with her on Saturday mornings. Then there are lots of kids that I babysit only now and then, but Kristal and Willow are my usuals."

And she was clearly desperate to get a third usual.

"Don't you have little time to yourself? Study, be wid friends…"

"It's all a matter of managing my time; I'm cool. Oh, by the way, have you seen the Halloween posters?"

No, she hadn't.

"We always have this big thematic party for Halloween. It's kids only in the late afternoon, with a big costume competition; then in the evening it's the adults competition. It's family-friendly, though, and I'll be around, in case parents want to go with their children but need someone to keep an eye on them in the play room. A friend of mine that also babysits is going to help out and there'll be games. If you like that kind of thing, I mean."

It sounded like the perfect opportunity to meet more people.

"Seems interesting. A lot of people go?"

"Not that many more than usual. Amber has already said she's going with Willow. They'll probably have a family costume like they did last year. They were cowboys, the three of them. Willow was adorable!"

"I bet. How old is he? You double babysit him and Kristal too?"

"Uh… Willow is a girl."

"Oh, sorry! I thought is like William…"

Damn the English names which weren't promptly identifiable as girl or boy!

"She's about one month younger than Kristal, and yes, I've babysat them together on some Friday evenings. Frances and Amber aren't friends or anything, but their kids are almost best..."

"Dah!"

Both Rosie and Isabel jumped at the child's sudden screech, but Lilia clapped her hands excitedly and quickly got on all her fours to start crawling towards the door. Victor.

"She heard Pappa arrive," Isabel laughed and watched her eager efforts. "She's going to de garage. Is always de same."

And it wasn't a lie. Whenever Pappa was away for longer than usual, she always wanted to go and meet him the moment she heard him. Rosie got up awkwardly.

"I should be going…"

Isabel got up with a smile, but didn't get to say much because Lilia started screeching so excitedly she couldn't even crawl. It gave Isabel the impression that Victor was out in the hall, eavesdropp… No, he must be trying to smell any lies or something like that.

"Hello ta you too, baby girl."

The man finally showed up, swooping the girl up and throwing her up in the air. Obviously, her screeches of delight intensified. Isabel had to bite her tongue to resist the urge to tell the man to calm the girl's excitement rather than intensifying it.

"Everything went well, 'mor?"

"Yup," he simply couldn't hold back that proud smile at his daughter's happiness. "Well but slow. Gotta go back tomorrow. I should be done by lunch, but there's no guarantees. Ya're still free, kid?"

Rosie's face lightened up.

"Oh, yes!"

"Great. I'll give ya a ride home, if ya want."

He wanted to question her personally, obviously. Guess Lilia was in for some crying, once she saw her freshly arrived Pappa leave again.

"That's okay, Mr Kredall. There's plenty of light and the weather's great, but thanks." The teen turned to Isabel. "Two hours again?"

"Yes, please. Thank you so much for your help."

"Oh, no! Thank _you_ , Mrs Kredall. See you tomorrow! Mr Kredall. Bye, Lilia Victoria!"

Lilia didn't pay the babysitter any attention. She was busy kicking the air and slapping her Pappa's wrists, anticipating her next flight. Which must have come soon enough, from the sound of it, as Isabel accompanied Rosie to the door.

When she returned, the man was sprawled on the sofa and coaxing the child to walk on his chest. It was a sight to melt the hardest heart and she leaned on the doorway.

"So, what you think of her?"

"She didn't do much," he grinned. "Did she, baby girl? No, she didn't. 'Cause yer Mamma was around all the time an' didn't let her do nuthin'. She ain't ever gonna show her true colours fer as long as yer Mamma keeps breathin' down her neck."

Isabel rolled her eyes. If she hadn't stayed around so much, he'd have complained she hadn't breathed down her neck enough.

"Today was for Lilia be comfortable wid her. Besides, I wanted to talk wid her. Is important dat we learn as much as possible and dat is done talking. Now, what you think of her?"

"So far, there's no big red flags, but I don't know if I like all that excitement about babysittin'. It don't sound natural."

Isabel came over and sat over his legs, kissing the child's neck.

"Is completely natural. She wants be a singer and her mum not only cuts her wings but also forces her to work at her side. Trust me, dat girl would pay to babysit and stay away from de restaurant. And you can't forget she knows I sing and play. I have a feeling she's going to ask if I can teach her."

Victor sat up, serious.

"And are ya?" Huh? "If she asks ya fer lessons, are ya gonna teach her? 'Cause it means we'd have the kid eatin' out of our hands."

This was going to take years, teaching the man how to be part of a community with a minimum of honesty.

"We don't want her eating out of our hands, 'mor. We want dat she likes babysitting Lilia and dat only happens if she _and_ her moder trust us. So, if she asks about… uh… what is de word… ideas, an orientation, I help her. But if she asks for lessons, I talk wid her moder first and, after her moder agrees, den I give her lessons."

He kicked her off his legs with a grumpy 'if ya say so' and Isabel got the chance to sit more comfortably at his side.

"So, you want go to de Halloween party?"

He glared lightly at her.

"D'ya really need ta ask?"

She bit down a laugh.

"I rephrase: you want to use de Halloween party to our advantage?"

"'Cause you wanna go, right?"

Isabel shrugged.

"I'm not a fan of Halloween, and I'm not a fan of Carnival masks too. But is an important date here, and you heard Rosie: a lot of families go. We need to know more families, especially because you don't like Frances a lot."

She didn't mention she wanted to meet more women she could hang out with. Women who had kids Lilia could play with, who enjoyed music, perhaps liked horses too. The man grumbled a fine and Isabel felt satisfied the matter was settled.

"Well, I'm going to start dinner. Why don't you think about masks dat you like, huh? Something simple but not boring." She was entering the kitchen when it suddenly dawned on her that Rosie had mentioned a competition for children _and_ for adults. "Oh, don't worry! Is not to participate in de competition."

"Why not?"

And he was soon next to her in the kitchen.

"What, _you_ want be part of de competition?"

"Why don't ya want to?"

Isabel glanced suspiciously at him then opened the fridge to get the marinated meat out.

"Is no need! And I told you: I'm not a fan of masks. Don't tell me _you_ like masks?"

"I've worn masks an' costumes fer years in my line o' work. I'm more than used to it."

Was this for real or was he trying to get back at her for forcing him to go to the party? Perhaps it would be wiser not to let him think too much about costumes. Just in case.

As she got onions and carrots onto the counter, Victor pulled a chair and held Lilia by her little hands so she could walk upright for a bit.

"Ya know we have ta make sacrifices fer the sake o' Victoria," he said with apparent distraction. "Participatin' in the damned competition is just one o' them. I didn't think ya'd balk at such an opportunity ta _make friends_."

Yes, he was definitely getting back at her. And he did have a point: if he was willing to force himself to do things he hated for his daughter's sake, while being very much aware she loved those same things; the least Isabel could do was show him she was perfectably capable of walking in his shoes without complaint. After all, she'd been doing nothing but things she enjoyed so far.

"You're right," she said with determination as she started frying the onion and the garlic.

"Damn right I am, ain't I, baby girl?" He whispered smuggly. "Yeah, I am. Say Pappa's right, won't ya? Pappa's right."

Isabel rolled her eyes with a smile.

"Dah!"

"Yeah, that's right, girl! Pappa's very, very right! And ya're a smart, smart lil' girl fer sayin' it."

Suppressing a giggle, she added the tomato and the white wine. One could almost say it tickled her, listening to the man as he talked to the child, pretending her dah-dahs had actual meaning. It produced the funniest conversations.

"Now _you_ tell Pappa: what d'ya wanna wear fer the party, huh? What d'ya wanna be? Wha? No, baby girl, ya can't go dressed up as a baby. Ya's already one. Ya gotta think bigger 'an that. Say what, how's about ya go dressed as a big, bad hunter, huh? A great huntress! Won't that be a great costume, huh? Pappa could even get ya a lil' huntin' riffle! Hey, Nesi, d'ya think we can get a mini-huntin' riffle fer her? Some blank-shootin' toy that looks like the real thing. It'd be perfect!"

She wasn't sure if they had the same idea of perfect, but it might be best not to shoot down his idea point blank.

"I have no idea," she put Lilia's soup heating up next to the meat pot and cleaned her hands before joining them by the table. "I think gun toys always look false."

"Yeah, it's true. Oh, I know! I can have it custom made! I know just the right people. They make all sorts o' customised weaponry."

Okay, don't look alarmed.

"You mean, guns dat really shoot?"

"Don't be stupid, Nesi! I wouldn't let her play with a loaded gun. But if it ain't got no ammo, it ain't no problem."

She needed another argument, but while she didn't think something up, she might as well give him a break.

"Listen, Friday is a bad day to go to Lena because a lot of people go, but I was thinking: maybe oder nights are more quiet. You want go next Thursday and see if is better?"

He frowned.

"I thought ya wanted the place packed so ya could meet more folks."

"Is not de quantity dat is important; is de quality."

He smirked, then he turned to Lilia.

"Ya hear that, baby girl? Yer Mamma's finally talkin' sense!"

"Shut up!" She slapped his shoulder playfully. "Get her ready for soup. Is almost hot. Our dinner should be ready in thirty minutes, and she better be full at dat time."

Isabel turned to get the plates and set the table, but she still noticed him sniffing with a bit of annoyance.

"Problem?"

"I'm gonna go hunt somethin' tomorrow so don't get worried if I'm gone when ya wake up. I wanna have some fresh meat."

Huh? That didn't make any sense.

"I killed and skinned de rabbit at lunch. You saw me."

Meat couldn't get any fresher than that!

"Yeah, but it's cooked till it tastes nuthin' like meat!" Isabel stopped breathing. What was he saying? "I'm gonna have myself a breakfast drippin' blood. I'm sick an' tired o' stews an' roasts!"

When he looked up at her, she saw his expression go from relaxed, albeit annoyed, to cautious. She didn't know what to say and he was obviously regretting his words.

"I thought you liked…" she ended up saying in a whisper which she hoped didn't sound as hurt as she felt. "You said you like my cooking."

"I do like yer cookin'!"

"You just said you're fed up," she hissed without thinking twice. "Don't fucking lie to me!"

"I ain't…" He growled lightly and glared, obviously a response to her own glare. "Ya listen ta me, woman: if I said I like yer cookin', that's 'cause I like yer cookin', an' that's the end of it."

Oh, she could have thrown the blasted cooking pot to his head right about now!

"If you are so fed up, why don't you go hunt a blood drip dinner, huh?"

The man picked up Lilia, who'd gone quietly serious, and got up.

"Ya know I like rare meat, and ya ain't made nuthin' rare in months!"

Was this for real?!

"I made meat in de oven on Sunday and I certified de meat was rare!"

"But it ain't the same! It ain't like somethin' freshly killed an' barely cooked in the fire!"

She remembered that time, back in his lost cabin, when he'd taken her hunting. The thin slices he'd cut so she could eat meat as rare as he enjoyed. She felt her face burn. Why had she forgotten that particular taste of his? Unwilling to be the only one to blame, she turned her back on him and stirred the girl's soup.

"You should have said something. I'm not a telepat; I don't guess what you want and don't want."

But she _should_ have remembered!

"Listen, if we…" She interrupted herself when she turned back and saw his fierce expression.

It didn't frighten her, not in the least. If anything, it turned her on a bit; or it would have turned her on if it hadn't made her feel guilty first of all. Give in, she told herself. He'll never learn to apologise if you don't teach him how, anyway.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't remember how you like almost raw meat, and dat is my fault. I am sorry. But please tell me when you want eat something so I can know and I can prepare it for you."

He was still scowling and she sighed, went back to what she was saying.

"If we install de barbecue, like we talked about, then is easier make really rare fresh meat like you like. Why don't you talk wid de builder? De faster is made, de faster I start cooking exactly like you like."

"The soup's boilin'," he said curtly.

Isabel knew he took some time to get over his annoyances, though, so she simply let it drop and gave him the time he needed.

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If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	48. Creston: Reputation

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

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 **48\. Creston: Reputation**

Thursday evenings were quieter indeed. Dale was still around, but he had fewer requests for singing and ended up leaving the sound system alone with its playlists. Instead, he and Angie danced a whole lot more. Isabel soon found out that Lena paid him to be around three evenings a week, and the rest of the days he was free to drop in to play, if he wanted, or just to fool around. Of course, he always ended up playing and singing a bit, because someone would always ask him to and he enjoyed such opportunities way too much to refuse.

"She's a cheapstakes," Victor had said. "Offers the Daltons a couple of free drinks and he always gives at least half an hour of show for free just 'cause he likes it. Moreno's the one who wins the most wi' that arrangement."

Though Isabel wasn't so sure. Dale was free to do as he felt like and she got a feeling he appreciated that freedom, not to mention he gave her the feeling that he enjoyed working with music for the sheer love of doing so.

The three chicks, as Victor called them, were always there, too. It turned out they came every single night, unless the weather was bad. On the previous Thursday, they had come in for dinner, instead of a drink, and Adella had called her over to chat for a bit before they had even had the chance to order, Isabel had also noticed that the three young women had measured Victor up and down.

"He's such a sight," Lyn had said.

"Lyn!"

For a fleeting moment, Isabel had felt a pang of jealousy, but then she had reminded herself Victor would have snapped the girl's neck without a second thought and felt smug that she alone could have caught a man as dangerous as him.

"What? I'm married, not blind."

"And she's right," Isabel had told Angie with a smug grin. "He _is_ a sight."

"Don't encourage her," the doctor had said seriously. "She doesn't need it."

Oh, so Lyn liked stepping outside the fence, did she? Isabel couldn't help wondering if her marriage to Mountie Nelson had happened over a surprise pregnancy or something of the sort.

"And, anyway, you may want to keep a close watch over him," Adela had warned her in a whisper. "Belle Jackson strikes handsome men first. If I were you, I wouldn't let him cruise around Creston on his own. Especially not to go to the supermarket. It's her favourite hunting ground. The moment he starts offering to go shopping to save you some time, you know he'll be cheating on you."

Isabel had taken a step back. Victor had been going to the shops to make sure she didn't need to leave the house from day one. Obviously, it had nothing to do with the man-eater, but if those three noticed it, there might be rumours.

"That's how Franny started getting suspicious," Pru informed her. "Of course, everyone already knew about it. The moment a guy chats with her, he's done. If he hasn't cheated on you yet, he's five minutes away from doing it."

Something hadn't added up, though.

"I heard he had already cheated before dey married."

"That's when they first got friendly," Lyn joined in. "I told Franny. I told her a million times, but she wouldn't hear any of it and then Sam stopped talking to her to please Franny…"

"Just to cover up the affair, obviously," Pru had cut in to clarify. "They were steady by then. You see, Jackson lives in Erickson, and Maura Jervis is pretty much her neighbour. She keeps an eye on her, so she knows every guy that stops by. Sam, Franny's ex, he always parked his car near the gas station and then walked over to her house with a hat hiding his face. Maura figured out who he was in less than a year."

"A lot of men show up during the day and say it's because she's their accountant, and some are way old, but Maura says that some stick around for so long, they're either being hunted by the IRS or else."

"Belle Jackson?" Isabel had asked.

"Tall, skinny, long brown hair and showing off her boobs like she's in some porn video."

Isabel had killed a smirk, because that description could have fit Lyn like a glove, except she was heavily pregnant at the moment.

"She goes jogging in mini-shorts and a sports bra," Pru had added, " even when it's still too cold for it, and whether it's day or night."

"She tapes them too," Lyn had added, "and then blackmails the assholes into giving her money and jewellery. She's not stupid, that one."

"Oh, and she's always pestering the mounties about wild animals in her yard or alleged breaking-ins," Adela jumped in. "Just ask Lyn and Pru about it."

"Don Sherman," Lyn sneered, "was forbidden of going over. His wife, Amber, is completely obssessed with the idea of getting cheated on. The last time he went to Jackson's, he slept on the sofa for a week. He never went there again. Not that the others are pissed about it. There are at least a couple who've spent the night at Jackson's."

"Oh?"

"Lex Madison and Jasper Leavitt," Lyn clarified. "Old dicks looking for young action."

After dinner, the girls had been dancing and Angie had insisted with them to join the dance floor.

"Come on," she'd winked. "I'll tell Dale to add your favourite songs to the playlist."

Once more, Victor had said he didn't want to leave Lilia on her own and had instead told Isabel to sing something for him.

"No, 'mor," Isabel had said in Portuguese. "There'll be clapping at the end and Lilia will end the night crying. I don't want her to start hating these nights out."

"She has to get used to loud sounds," he had answered in slow Portuguese. "And there are fewer people tonight; it won't be so bad."

She had still been torn about it, but she'd sung. Back in Portugal, shortly after they had moved to Alentejo if her memory served her right, Victor had given her a CD with the best of Tracy Chapman and had then helped her to learn a few of the songs, so that night she had once more borrowed Dale's guitar and had sung The Promise, which was the quietest of the songs she'd learnt, not to mention Victor liked when she sang it softly to him, looking him straight in the eyes as she desired to be with him wherever he was and vowed to come for him.

But that had been the week before. Tonight, it had been Isabel to stray from her family even before they'd gotten to the table.

There was a counter by the entry where people paid at the end of the night, and Lena Moreno, Rosie's mother, was the one who usually occupied it. As Frances led Victor, she leaned on the counter and said they needed to talk about Rosie.

"It's just a moment," and there was immediate tension in her voice. "Jeff, take over for five minutes. This way, Mrs Kredall."

Isabel followed her through a previously locked door. She had expected to find herself in the woman's office, but discovered instead a relatively wide room with a few tables and chairs.

"It's a room for small private parties," she explained. "It's popular with birthday parties and anniversaries, so if you ever need a quiet place for a small function, just give me a call."

Rosie was right: she did not lose an opportunity to market her place.

"Now, tell me, has Rosie done…"

"No, no!" Isabel cut in, sliding her heavy handbag off the shoulder and letting it come to rest on one of the chairs. "Rosie is a fantastic girl, Mrs Moreno. She is responsible, attent; she remembers what Lilia likes and not likes… She is intelligent, she likes to help and… uh… I don't know enough words in English to express how happy I am dat she wants babysit my daughter."

The woman sighed, relieved.

"I want talk wid you not because I have a problem now but because I don't want problems in de future. You know dat I am in de town choir, and dat I sing and I play guitar. I play de piano, too. And dis Monday, when Rosie came to babysit, she asked me if I could teach her to play guitar."

Lena's face expressed all her displeasure, but she didn't say anything.

"I told Rosie dat if you give permission, den my lessons have rules. Is more or less de same rules dat my teacher imposed when I was a kid. First, I have to receive a copy of her school marks and I have to know what is de minimum marks you want of her. Den if she has a test dat has a mark below dat limit, she doesn't have no lessons until de mark is good again."

Isabel smiled and added a confession: "Was de only reason why I studied, when I was a kid. And when a kid is fanatic about a hobby and hates school, is de best way of make dem study. I don't mean dat Rosie doesn't like school, I don't know dat, but I can see she is entusiastic and entusiasm in teenagers usually means dat study is not very important."

"No, school isn't important for teenagers," the woman said harshly. "They're too young and too rebelious to understand its importance."

"Yes," Isabel nodded. "Dey only understand when is too late. Dat is why is important dat dey have something to motivate dem to study."

Lena took a step back and crossed her arms.

"Did you tell her you were coming to talk to me?"

"Of course. I also told her dat if she has lessons wid me, is not to learn to play one or two songs. Dat is what de majority of de kids want, you know? A shortcut to start feeling like dey're celebrities. But dat is an illusion. Music is like everything else: you have to understand de teory, and you have to work. Hard. You have to practise, sometimes very boring things, until you understand the instrument completely. If you don't do dat, you don't know music, you just know some songs. I told her dat if she is serious about de guitar, she will work hard and will be a long time before she can try to impress friends and I hope she understood dat if I see she is not working hard, wid de music or wid school, de lessons stop. She told me she wasn't afraid of hard work and dat she won't disappoint me. So, now, is up to you. Please think about it, talk wid Rosie, and… you have my number. Call me when you make a decision."

The woman was once more silent, her lips tightly together.

"Anything you want to ask me or…?"

"How much?"

"I am not a real teacher, Mrs Moreno, and I don't want be. I don't want money. Ah, I almost forgot. Rosie said she doesn't have a guitar, so I said dat she can borrow my old guitar to practice, but if her marks go down, den she gives de guitar back."

"And you don't want us to pay you."

"No. I am not offering to teach no one, Mrs Moreno. Your daughter asked for my help, and… Listen, I'm from Portugal. De only teenagers dat babysit are broders and cousins. If you pay someone to babysit, is an older woman dat you can trust, dat has experience… When Angie told me Rosie was good wid children, I wasn't certain, but den I saw her and… In all honesty, de way she treats my daughter, I am only too glad to help. So, think about it and phone me when you decide. If is ok wid you, I go join my husband and my daughter."

As Isabel left, she wasn't sure if the woman would agree. She could think the offer was too good to be true, or she might really not want Rosie to touch anything music related.

Victor was distracting Lilia and their food hadn't yet arrived, but he looked up when she sat down.

"How did it go?"

Isabel shrugged.

"Like you would say, she has a good poker face."

He handed out a flyer with bright orange letters.

"Franny-girl gave me this when I ordered. I told her ta count us in fer the evenin' competition next week and she said we gotta pay one dollar each."

Oops, Rosie must have forgotten that detail. She grabbed the flyer with a sigh. Time flew by so fast! To think that the Halloween was already the following week, and on a Friday on top of it. It was going to be so crowded!

"You still want?"

Underneath the orange Halloween in the flyer, there was an assortment of monsters: vampires, Frankenstein, mummies…

"I was thinkin' ya could go as a vampire." God! Of all the sutpid clichés he could have thought of, he had to choose vampires? "Ya already know how ta go fer the jugular."

That caught her by surprise. That night fresh in her memory and her cheeks burning, Isabel hissed a 'stop it'. But her blood was running faster at the thought of it and she knew Victor was aware of it.

"Dat was an accident," and it had been, but it didn't change the fact that she had often thought of repeating the deed.

Franny came in with her food then, and that was when she got the perfect idea to put an end to both the teasing and the vampire thing.

"If I'm a vampire, den you are my victim. Oh, and you, my precious baby girl, you'll be a little bat."

"Like hell I'll be yer victim! And I told ya: Victoria is goin' as a hunter."

"And you?"

He looked thoughtful for a moment as he chewed a piece of meat.

"I'm gonna be a vikin' warrior, complete with a bear pelt and everythin'. A viking berserker."

Isabel sighed and started eating, but this couldn't be delayed.

"Victor, listen, we have to be united. Think of it as… as our family against de world."

He already had a tendency to see the world as me agaisnt them, so she hoped he could connect the two concepts.

"If we go wid different masks, is like… like we aren't united. But if we go wid de same tematic – we are all vampires, or we're all hunters, or we're all vikings – den we show everyone dat we are united and nothing can separate us. And Lilia Victoria, she needs to grow up wid dat idea too. She has to grow up thinking dat, no matter what, family will always help and protect her. No matter what. And is dis little things dat create dat image. So, what you prefer: we're vampires, hunters, or vikings?"

He looked thoughtful for a moment then there was a girlish screech from the front of the restaurant.

"That was Rosie," Victor said. "She's thankin' her mother in a low voice now, so it's safe ta say she agreed to let you teach the girl."

Ah, great! She was really looking forward to it.

"They're comin' over."

Lilia, who'd been chewing her fabric doll, brightened up at the sight of her new playmate. It made Isabel think she really needed to start playing with children her age, and that meant that the Halloween party had to be a success… not in terms of winning stupid costume competitions, but in the sense of meeting families with young children and hitting it off.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your dinner, Mr and Mrs Kredall."

"Ya can call me Victor," he said out of the blue.

Quickly following suit, she asked the woman to call her Isabel.

"Well, I just wanted to say that I agreed… that my daughter Rosie can learn to play the guitar under the rules you proposed."

"Thank you for your confidence in me, Mrs Moreno."

"Call me Lena. Uh… I would like to put one condition, though."

"Yes, of course."

"I prefer dat Rosie doesn't bring de guitar home wid her."

The girl rolled her eyes with barely held anger, but Isabel guessed the woman's concern immediately: if the girl got a guitar in her hands, she wouldn't do anything else besides playing it, even if it was the most boring practice in the world. Not to mention it was a way of sabotaging the girl's efforts. If she didn't practice enough, she wouldn't become a successful player. But there were ways around that particular point.

Isabel nodded with a smile.

"And… you mentioned you're Portuguese."

Isabel's heart skipped a beat. Could it be the woman spoke Portuguese after all?

"Sim, sou," she confirmed.

"Pode ensinar cannços portuguessess à Rosie?"

Teach her Portuguese songs? Rosie was obviously annoyed by the thought but…

"Rosie's godmother, my great-aunt, she was born in the Azores and she still speaks Portuguese. She's very sorry that Rosie doesn't speak the language and I thought… if she at least sang a song or two. Her godmother would be very thankful."

My god! This was a complete jackpot! Even if Lena's Portuguese was a bit distorted, the woman could understand her when she spoke in Portuguese. Oh, she so wanted to be friends with the woman now!

"Well, I don't know if Rosie will like, but… I speak in Portuguese a lot wid Lilia Victoria because I want dat she is fluent, so is a good chance Rosie will learn a little Portuguese too. At least de favourite word of Lilia: dá. Give."

Lena smiled, relief and hope on her face, but then looked awkward for a moment. Her eyes fell on the flyer.

"Are you coming to the Halloween party?"

"Oh, yes. We were talking about de masks right now, right, 'mor?"

Victor nodded.

"I hope you'll enjoy it. But we also have a special promotion during the entire year, I think Rosie may have mentioned it. Because it's our fourth anniversary, all birthday parties for children and teens will have a discount equivalent to the age of the child and adults will have the same discount but only for family or couple meals. However, since you're going to all this trouble with Rosie, I'd like to offer both of you a completely free family meal for your birthdays."

"That's very nice of ya," Victor said. "Don't mind if we take ya up on yer offer. Isabel's birthday's on November 4, by the way."

What? Isabel barely held back a frown of annoyance.

"Alright. Do you want to book in advance? Maybe choose a particular table or…"

"Uh… in truth, I was thinking something at home…" And she looked at Victor with what she hoped was a clear instruction to backtrack on the whole story.

"Nonsense! Ya ain't gonna be cookin' on yer birthday, Nesi. We'll come here, have a nice meal… hey, maybe Dale won't mind settin' up a playlist with all yer favourites."

Great. Of all the days, the man had decided to be social tonight.

"If the weather's good," Victor carried on, "d'ya think we could get a table outside? Otherwise, somethin' near the stage."

Lena said she'd go and book it right now and Rosie took the moment to grab Isabel's hand.

"Thank you so, _so_ much, Mrs Kredall. You have no idea how much this means to me."

Although she felt glad for the girl, Isabel wasn't in the mood for celebrations just about now. She needed to tear Victor apart for not backtracking on that birthday idea.

"You're welcome, Rosie. Go on and enjoy de night, ok? You don't have work tonight, right?"

She didn't, not after spending the evening babysitting, even if little Noel was a sweet. Not to mention he'd fallen asleep so fast, she'd had the chance to catch up on some late homework.

"You have dinner yet?"

"Oh, yeah, I have. And what about you, Lilia Victoria? You want to play some? Do you?"

Of course she did. In the very least, she wanted out of the chair.

"Take her fer a walk on the dance floor," Victor told her. "But don't let her get close ta folks havin' dinner."

Lilia was clearly excited to finally explore the place. Isabel guessed she'd soon stop being wary about the patrons and, the moment she learnt to walk, she'd want to explore everything in the restaurant. But even though she softened at the sight of Lilia's clumsy steps, as Rosie held her hands, Isabel was still boiling.

"I said I wanted stay de night at home, Victor!"

He had just moved the chair to the side so he could keep an eye on Lilia, but hadn't yet gotten his plate in front of him.

"What? You, the party animal, don't wanna celebrate yer own birthday with a bang? I'm shocked."

"Is _not_ my birthday" she hissed through clenched teeth. "And I am not going to sing happy birthday because is _**not**_ my birthday."

How hard was it for the man to get it? She was playing pretend, with this Isabel persona, but it still wasn't who she really was. She was Inês Sofia Ferro dos Santos; she'd always be Inês Sofia Ferro dos Santos.

Victor looked thoughtful for a moment and Isabel looked away, trying to swallow the anger before people noticed it. It was too late to go back on the birthday dinner, anyway.

"If ya don't wanna sing happy birthday, then don't. Nobody's forcin' ya t'do it. But you just got an opening wi'the woman and I ain't gonna let it go ta waste. We're takin' her up on her offer, an' that's final."

Oh, she was so furious right now! She couldn't even eat.

"'Sides, it's the date on yer documents, so ya better act like it's yer real birthday. Or are ya one o' those who don't ever celebrate no birthdays?"

She refused to even look at the man, in case she lost what little control she had over her tongue right about now.

"Look, I don't give a shit 'bout no birthdays, and I'm still gonna use the woman's offer fer mine, which is a as fake as yours. I don't see what's the big deal."

And the worst was that he would never understand. He didn't know his own birthday, so he couldn't understand how keeping faithful to that date helped her to retain her true identity.

"Of course I celebrate my birthday, Victor," she ended up saying. "But I am _not_ going to celebrate false birthdays. Precisely because I celebrate _my_ _**real**_ birthday."

"Fine! Celebrate it all ya want. But ya're still gonna have that birthday dinner an' that's the end of it."

Once more, she refused to look at him and glued her eyes on Lilia. She had grown tired of standing, apparently, and was now crawling after Rosie in a mock tag game.

"Why ain't ya eatin'?"

"Unfortunately, I seem to have lost my appetite," she said coldly in Portuguese.

Amazingly, he shut up. Could it be he was finally realising how angry his actions had made her?

"If ya ain't gonna eat, why don't ya go sing somethin'?"

What? She finally looked at him, slowly and aware she was irradiating withering fury. The man was even wise enough to adapt his body language, since he undid the frown and sat back.

"What? Ya like singin'!"

She looked back at Lilia without a word.

"I thought singin' made ya happy," he grumbled, annoyed. As if he had a right to be annoyed.

"It is _not_ singing that makes me happy," she explained in Portuguese through clenched teeth, not even bothering to glance his way.

Once more, he ate in silence for a few moments.

"I wanna hear ya sing," he said quietly, almost as if to himself. "I like it when ya sing fer me the way ya do."

Oh, he did, did he? Was that why he always forbade her from singing? Yes, because she wasn't stupid. He only asked her to sing because folks around wanted him to dance and he'd rather have the lesser evil. And if he was going to lie, the least he could do was do it decently, rather than show how much it hurt to spew half-assed alleged romantic lines.

"A word of advice, my love," he said in the softest Portuguese she could manage right now. "Don't contradict yourself. Especially when you know I have a good memory and am not likely to forget all those times you've informed me that you _hate_ when I act like a fucking whore, singing in _public_ for every man around to drool over."

For once, he looked away, obviously annoyed at having been caught in his lie.

Lilia was trying to climb onto the stage where Dale was correcting the playlist so it included the most recent requests. Suddenly, Victor got up and almost stomped to the stage. What the hell was the man doing now?

After a few moments, he came back to the table. The sound system started playing the opening lines of Waltzing Matilda. What was h…

"Dance with me."

She didn't want to, at all. Unfortunately, she couldn't refuse him. There was a cover to maintain, after all. So she sighed and took his hand.

The stupid thing was that it felt good, _so_ good, to be in his arms like this, swinging softly in the warm safety of his embrace. She closed her eyes and leaned her head on his chest, the way she'd done a lifetime ago. For a moment, she imagined him whispering 'sorry'. Ha! As if he ever would.

Victor kept rocking gently even when the song was over and she didn't make a move to get away from him. Another song started playing. She didn't recognise it and it didn't really matter anyway. She could have continued dancing like this without any music. It was the closest she'd ever get to an apology even if he only meant it as a 'get over your anger already'.

"I hate it when the guys are oggling you," he whispered in a hybrid of Spanish and Portuguese. "When you're up on a stage, singing. But I still like the way you sing for me. That is not a lie."

Isabel sighed. So he was trying to apologise after all. But she was still annoyed! Maybe not furious anymore, maybe not even properly angry, but she was still nettled.

"Listen, I'll take ya out fer a big fancy dinner on yer real birthday, okay?" He switched back to English. "When is it?"

A little voice suggested telling him to go to hell. If she couldn't know when his real birthday was, why should he know hers? Sure, the guy himself had no idea what his birthday was, but still. She barely knew anything at all about his past. What gave him the right of knowing everything about her while keeping his whole past life hidden from her? It was settled. Even though he was being uncharacteristically sweet right now and doing his best to make it up for his blunder? Yes, even though.

"Nesi?"

She didn't comply. He wanted to see her won over, and she wasn't in the least inclined to be won over. She might not glare him half to death, but she was not going to smile and act like everything was just fine.

"Com'on, my Nesi, look at me."

He liked it when she sang for him, did he? Fine.

"Give me a second."

She said it in English and got away from his embrace. For a moment, she felt she was being mean to him, which wasn't really smart on her side. She knew very well she had to reinforce every nice behaviour of his. Apologising with a dance and offering ways to make up for a mistake counted as excellent behaviour, so maybe she should have told him upfront she was going to sing for him like he wanted, instead of leaving him on a cliffhanger.

"Dale, I'm sorry, can I use your guitar? I need to start bring mine."

"Sure."

Isabel sat on the stage and looked at Victor. Yeah, he was probably on the verge of feeling seriously humilliated. And, to be perfectly honest, he didn't deserve that. He had chosen the wrong moment to be social, true, and he'd completely missed the meaning of her glare, but he'd been social. And he'd been social for her sake, on top of it. Well, for his family's sake, to be honest, but that included her.

She showed the guitar and mouthed 'for you'. He didn't look happy but his shoulders relaxed. Since there was still a song playing, Isabel decided to look busy tuning the instrument while choosing what to sing. She wanted the perfect song, because Victor needed to know how much she appreciated his efforts to make up for his blunders.

* * *

Creed was seething inside. It didn't matter what he did, it always went wrong. He knew the woman needed to socialise with friends and to sing in public if he wanted her to be devoted to him. So what did he do, stupid that he was? The moment he saw an opening, he went for it. No matter if he hated the mere thought of it, he still went for it like a jackass.

Lena Moreno was the perfect option for becoming Isabel's friend. Her daughter was into music so Isabel could indulge in all the musical overdose she wanted with the kid and, plus for him, do it in the privacy of their home. The woman herself was the no-nonsense type and not only had Portuguese blood, it turned out she spoke the language too. What else did Isabel want? The moment Lena had come to the table, he had been outright friendly, even chatty! Was he looking forward to stupid birthday meals? Hell, no! But Isabel needed friends and he was willing to do his best to help her make the right ones. And besides, she liked partying, for crying out loud! Was she going to have a better excuse to have a big party with her freshly made friends at a safe location? Of course not!

He still didn't understand why she'd gone ballistics. Because of a fake birthday? She didn't have to sing happy birthday if it riled her that much; it was just an excuse to socialise. Wasn't that what she wanted, to socialise? To babble about with those stupid chicks and sing cheesy love songs on stage? It just didn't make any sense! What was wrong with the damned woman?

Victoria was crawling frantically towards him across the dance floor, and he breathed out a half growl before picking her up. It cooled down the frustration trying to rage inside him. But even though his daughter hugged him, it wasn't enough to ease his chagrin. He breathed in the girl's scent, his precious baby girl.

"At least you don't gimme no trouble, do ya, baby girl?"

He nuzzled her tummy and she laughed delightedly, grabbed his ears and hair. At least he could always count on his baby girl to look at him with nothing but absolute adoration.

"Good night, everyone. I'm sorry to interrupt de music dat Dale is playing, but I really need to say something to someone very special."

"Dah," Victoria prattled at his ear, her legs swinging excitedly.

There was a bit of nervousness in her body, though, and Creed rubbed her arm with cheerfulness.

"Yay," he whispered, "Mamma's gonna sing fer Pappa."

It was about time! She should have gone and sung for him the moment he'd asked her to, ages ago.

The first notes gave away the song: can't stop falling in love with you. He'd never heard her either play or sing it and wondered if she had learnt the lyrics properly.

"Wise men say

only fool sruh sheen…"

Right. He'd just have to teach her, wouldn't he? What on earth would she do if he weren't around to teach her to sing English songs properly? And he blamed his baby girl, quietly resting on his arm, for the slight grin on his face.

"Shall I stay?

Wouldee be a seen

If I can't help…"

Isabel looked up from the guitar and finally looked him straight in the eyes.

"falling in love wid you"

Her voice was tender and soft, but her gaze seemed a bit sad. It made him want to go to the edge of the stage where she was sitting and hold her tight. Tell her she was safe with him, that he would do anything to keep her safe and happy… if only she'd look at him with the devotion of the old times.

"Take my hand

Take my whole life too

For I can't help

Falling in love wid you."

She meant it, though. Hadn't she said before that she had to feel the emotion of the melody and mean every word of it? He was pretty sure that was what she'd told him two weeks or so ago. And the way she looked at him, the way she missed a few notes, the way she leaned her body towards him… Yeah, he was definitely taking her out for her real birthday. He'd take her somewhere else, maybe Vancouver, where nobody knew them. He'd give her the dinner party of a lifetime and she'd be smiling lovingly at him again. Forever.

Her fingers stopped in the meantime, and there was only her beautiful soft voice in the absolute silence of the restaurant. It was like a freaking love confession! Like telling the whole world she belonged to him and she was happy for it. It sent waves of shivering pleasure up his spine, that sappy voice of hers, and he'd have done anything…

"For I can't help

Falling in love wid you."

There was a sudden thunder of applause and Victoria literally jumped in his arm before starting to cry.

"Hush, hush, baby girl," he comforted as he headed to Isabel.

"Oh, meu amor, vem à mãe, vem."

Victoria did turn to Mamma, hugging her neck tight as she wailed helplessly, and Creed embraced the two of them. Behind them, the clapping died away, giving his baby a chance to start quieting down. At the same time, Isabel snaked a hand around his waist and pulled herself tighter against his body. She had meant every word of the stupid song. Well, every word she knew. She obviously had no idea what 'fools' and 'rush in' meant.

"Remember when…"

Damned! Dale Dalton was singing another of his cheesy country songs; time to put an end to the show. He might put up with Isabel's cheesy music, but he drew the line there.

One hand supporting their girl, who was still clinging sorely to her Mamma's neck, Isabel smiled up at him and he froze. Happiness and devotion. Finally! Hoping she kept looking at him with that loving reverence, Creed started swinging gently to the rhythm of the music. That gaze was worth every lame song the guy might want to butcher. He'd been waiting for it for so many months! Isabel laughed silently and gave herself fully to him, following his lead without a shadow of teasing, her gaze not leaving his for a split second. He hoped she had finally gotten over all the drama, that she would never again refuse to look at him devotedly.

* * *

Victor and Lilia were already outside when Isabel ran out of the restaurant, waving good-bye to Adela and her friends.

"It's about time," the man grumbled.

She ignored it, though, and slid a hand into one of his jeans' back pockets, taking advantage of the dark empty streets to squeeze his butt.

"Someone's hungry," he grinned. She could hear it in his voice.

"Someone's happy," she laughed, feeling light and free. "Lyn was telling me about Lex Madison, just now. He's a mountie, too; married, arrogant, and is known for cheating his wife."

She didn't mention Belle Jackson, nor did she mention that all the evidence there was of the alleged affair was the fact beloved Belle interrupted her jogging to lean on the guy's car and chat for a few minutes. Still, that was all the town needed to determine a guy was jumping the fence. The week before, when Isabel had told Victor the details she'd gotten on the local man-eater, he'd told her she didn't own him. Just like that, out of nowhere. Obviously, he'd been ticked by the girls' advice that she shouldn't leave him alone and should instead keep a steady watch. Isabel had let him rant about how he was his own man and could talk to whomever he very well felt like and was not about to be watched by anyone and especially not her.

"Apparently, he likes to act like he's de boss, but is very good at uh… keessass?"

"I think ya mean kissin'-asses."

"Isso," and she sighed. "Nelson doesn't like him and Pru says is a group of Mounties dat are dying to see him transferred. Namely, Don Sherman, Timothy Everett and Melville Campbell. Apparently, he is a machist jerk for de women mounties."

Victor got the car keys out of his pocket and unlocked the car.

"Ya know somethin'? I'm startin' ta think I won't need the services o' that background-check company from now on. Ya can take care o' that on yer own."

She laughed, carefree, as Victor put the sleeping Lilia in her car seat. Then she opened the other door and put the baby bag on the seat.

"Did Angie tell ya anythin' 'bout tomorrow's appointment? I overheard her tellin' Dale she wasn't feelin' right an' might stay at home."

"Yeah, I noticed she was pale and she almost didn't talk, but she told me she was ok when I asked if she was ok."

"Ya're her first patient, ain't ya?" He asked as he got in.

"Yeah, I think I am. But I chec… Merda. I left my bag in de restaurant!"

"Are ya serious?"

Isabel got out of the car, saying she'd be right back, and ran to the restaurant. How could she have forgotten it? She was sure she hadn't left anything by their table… oh, wait! She had taken her bag with her when she'd talked to Lena, in that private room. Maybe she'd left it there.

"Is everything ok, Isabel?"

"Yeah," she said, breathless from the sprint. "I left my bag in dat small room when we talked."

It was there, of course. How could she have forgotten it? No wonder she had felt so light when she'd left.

Isabel didn't run back to the car. She enjoyed the quiet night, instead. She had always liked the feeling of walking on dark empty strrets. It felt as if she owned the world and could do whatever she pleased. Especially on such a nice night!

Creston had fairly warm days, but the temperature tended to fall too much in the evening. She didn't like the large temperature difference and often wore thick jackets at night. This time, though, it wasn't really cold, at least not for the end of September. She got the crazy idea of inviting Victor for a night stroll in the woods. The woods nearest to the house, obviously. She was sure the man would like the sugg…

Isabel's heart stopped when she turned the corner. Barely breathing, she did not slacken or hurried a single step, even as her vision became tunneled. Belle Jackson. The jogger who hit on any dick that crossed her way, far or near. The solicit accountant who never refused to help a man file his IRS on time, especially if it meant inviting him to her private office at home. The man eater who'd ruined Frances King's marriage. The slut whom Amber Sherman had forbidden her husband to answer when she called alarmed over a would-be burglar or imagined brown bears. The bitch was talking to Victor. She was leaning on their jeep, every curve of that enticing body showcased. Tiger print leggings (how ridiculous could one get!) and a loose crossing-guard vest sliding down her naked shoulder. Laughing cheekily. Isabel looked swiftly around the dark street. Empty as expected.

"Hey," Victor turned to her. He was leaning on the jeep too, almost mirroring the slut. It turned her stomach. "Took ya long enough."

"Hi," the other one said as Isabel reached them.

She was still leaning on the jeep as if she owned the situation; as if Isabel had no way out besides swallowing the humilliation and making a cheery face. Isabel's face opened up into a casual smile. You cannot show your hand if you want to strike and find no defense.

"Hi," Isabel lifted her right hand to underline the greeting and, as luck would have it, the bitch returned her tempting gaze to Victor, as if Isabel meant nothing.

The greeting hand fulfilled its objective: Isabel grabbed the woman's head and pushed it hard against the jeep. Stunned, the woman offered no resistance and Isabel's right hand grabbed her neck as the left one gripped and twisted her ear.

"Shush," Isabel hissed, twisting the ear so badly the other one bent down and then choked when Isabel pressured her neck. "Not a word!"

The slut was holding herself against the jeep for balance, the other hand clutching Isabel's jacket like a claw. Good thing she had brought her heavy denim jacket, despite the balmy night, or she would have had to deal with the witch's nails.

"You talk wid my Victor one more time," she whispered, "and I kill you. Understand?"

Isabel twisted the ear a bit harder and the woman screeched.

"Shush! Don't wake de baby. You understand? Yes or no?"

"Let go of me, ya fucking bitch!"

Isabel twisted the ear so hard, the other one fell to her knees, then she banged her head against the door of the jeep.

"I told you to shup up," Isabel whispered. "I'm worried about you, honey. People can _die_ during a break in and I hear you have many."

Silence. Good.

"You understand dat you never talk wid my Victor again?"

"Yes," the other one hissed furiously.

Isabel banged her head again and let go of her, took a couple of steps back. The slut looked up furiously. A couple of tears of either pain or fear had ruined her Cleopatra make-up and Isabel didn't hide a mocking smirk.

"Oh my God!" Isabel said in a normal voice, a fist lying casually on a hip. "You tripped and fell, honey? Want help to get up?"

She did not move a finger to act out the hollow offer.

The woman scrambled to her feet, leaning on the jeep for balance, and Isabel studied the woman's expression impassively then she lifted a finger and shook her head.

"No, no," Isabel warned. "I suggest you don't say a word. Not one. Go home and clean dat face."

Isabel followed the defeated figure with her eyes for only a moment, then she opened her bag and said it was good she always had antibacterial wet wipes. It's the perfect thing to clean blood from a jeep. She didn't say it very loud, but the slut hadn't walked away far enough not to hear it.

She then looked at Victor and smiled.

"Sorry I took so long. Can we go home now?"

He had a shocked expression as Isabel had never seen on him. It was then she realised exactly what she had done. The man had had no idea that Isabel, sweet, little frail Nesi, could act the way she had. Like a cold hearted…

"What the fuck's wrong with you?"

Oops. The mask had cracked a bit too much this time. It was one thing to know she had a temper, another completely different thing to hear her dish a death threat. Now what?

"Don't ever talk with ' _my_ Victor'? People can _die_ in break-ins?"

She'd really messed up this time. Now what to say?

"Who the fuck d'ya think ya are t'say who I can an' can't talk with?"

Oh, _that_ was what had upset him! She should have guessed. Well, if that was all that had botthered him…

"Is nothing personal," she shook her head and opened the back door to put her handbag in. "We have a cover here, remember? We are de dream happy family dat live in our dream house in de middle of de wood. If people see Belle Jackson, because dat is Belle Jackson, if people see Belle Jackson talk wid you, we two gain a new reputation: you are her new fuck toy and I'm de poor cheated wife. Is _not_ going to happen, love."

Victor shook his head, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard her right.

"Oh, you forgot what I told you last week? I tell you again: Belle Jackson collects men. And she doesn't really have to do nothing, because people see her interest in you and already say she fucked you. A rumour can be worse dan reality, love. Dis kind of thing has to be cut in de root and cut very well."

He didn't say anything but his eyes measured her up and down. Did it mean that what she had done, besides the unimaginable insult of calling him ' _her_ Victor', was starting to sink in?

"Listen, you want to fuck dat slut, have fun. For me, is all de same. Hell, fuck every slut in de whole world! But de people in dis town can't dream of dat, ok? We have a reputation to maintain for de good of our daughter. Dat means no one can dream of a single problem in our heaven. Right?"

He didn't say anything, just kept gazing at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. It occurred to her he could smell lies, so he now knew full well that she hated the idea of him fucking around. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Isabel breathed out and entered the car, taking her place next to her daughter's car seat in the back. The child was still sleeping peacefully, her sweet darling. Not a minute later, Victor got in and drove off.

"Would ya really kill her?"

Isabel stopped breathing for a moment. Of course not! How on earth could she pull off such a stunt and not get caught? Even if the woman's house was easily reached through the woods. Sure, at least one neighbour controlled the cars that headed the way of the slut's house, but they couldn't actually see the house. And there had been so many calls of phoney break-ins… With a few precautions… Holy Mary, what was she fantasising about?

"Of course not," Isabel said, frowning in order to keep in mind the reasons why she couldn't do it.

She didn't have dogs, from what Isabel had heard. There were also those stories that she filmed her adventures to use as leverage, or straight-on blackmail, so there would be plenty of men and women interested in not having her death investigated too deeply. For as long as her death looked accidental… Besides, if the videos did exist and Isabel were to find them, she could use them to cover her back if need be.

"I only said dat to scare her," she added in a low voice, telling herself it was true.

Harmless fantasies, Virgin Mary. She didn't promise the Virgin it really was just a fantasy, though.

"I thought ya didn't make empty threats," Victor said in a low voice.

No, she didn't. But the slut wouldn't dare to call Isabel's bluff, anyway. That was one thing she had learnt as a child: if you can make people believe you'll do what you say you'll do, you never really have to do it. The others won't risk it. And after having her head banged against the car, after having the threat plus the reference to break-ins… she'd go for easier targets. Why was Isabel's heart beating so fast?

"I guess I was wrong."

Isabel looked out the window. The fields and woods were plunged in darkness and she felt a weight crushing her chest.

"Ya don't own me," Victor said. "I don't belong to you."

"I know!" Isabel breathed eagerly. "I know, Victor. Dat was only for effect. You know I only say dat because of our cover. I know."

"Ya can't tell me I can't fuck whoever I feel like."

He had smelled her lie and it was eating him up.

"I _know_. I don't say dat to you, promise. But don't let _no one_ know you fuck oder women. Is a humilliation for me and for our daughter. _Please_."

Don't let me know about it either, she pleaded in silence.

Victor stopped the car in the garage then went around and opened the door for her, stooped a bit to look her in the eye. Isabel tried to read the man's expression but it was in vain. Since he stood there, a hand on the open door and his eyes still judging her, Isabel remained seated, waiting for a reaction.

"I bet she won't risk crossin' ya any time soon. That was a hell of an impression ya caused."

Isabel smiled rigidly, half relieved. He hadn't called her Nesi, though, which meant he wasn't completely over the 'you don't own me' drama. But then he reached out and grabbed her wrist.

"Don't lie. Would ya kill her if she _talked_ t'me again?"

Isabel froze.

"Don't lie."

Fine! The truth and nothing but the truth.

"No, not for talking."

"Not fer talkin'," he echoed in a low voice. "And if she tried to seduce me?"

Isabel swallowed, fought tears of frustration. Even if she fantasised about it, she wouldn't really kill her. Not really. She'd beat her. Maybe give her a permanent reminder never to cross her path again. Only, no. No.

"If I did anything, it would confirm to everyone dat you had cheated, even if you hadn't."

"And if I said I'd kill her fer ya? It's what I do fer a livin'. No one would ever trace her death t'us."

Holy Mary protect her! What could she say to such a temptation?

"Well?"

"Uh… I don't know, Victor!" But she saw the woman in her mind, leaning on the jeep where her daughter was sleeping, shamelessly seducing her… "Teach her a lesson, yes, but _kill_ …"

But she did know.

"God!" She breathed out and shut her eyes close. "I would want to _see_ her dead if she tried to seduce you again but…"

What was she saying? What on earth was she saying?!

"I don't mean dat I or you would kill her." She leaned her forehead against his chest. "Want to see someone is dead is not de same as want to kill."

"Look at me," he pulled her wrist to get her attention and she opened her eyes. "I _will_ kill whoever compromises our cover, it makes no nevermind who it is or fer what reason."

Oh, God! What had she said?

"Take it easy, Nesi," Victor grinned and Isabel breathed better. "I ain't gonna do it anytime soon. Like I said, ya really taught the broad not t' cross ya. She was scared shitless."

Isabel tried to laugh but failed.

"Com'ere…"

Victor pulled her out and embraced her.

"I think I might actually be sorry if I never get ta see that badass side of yers again," he smirked.

He what?

"Com'on! Don't look so surprised. I might have enjoyed a nice catfight, but that was… impressive."

So he hadn't been shocked by her violence. She could release that cold-hearted side of hers around him because it wouldn't drive him away. Of course it wouldn't! He was a cold-hearted killer himself! Isabel welcomed his kiss with an eagerness that had Victor undoing his belt right there and then.

"Den next time," she grabbed his hair and pulled till he frowned, looking at her face. "Next time, kiss me in front of de slut and say… say whatever you want dat humilliates her even more."

Because whoever tried to humilliate her must be humilliated ten-fold. He grinned.

"How's about: Damn, woman! That was one hot ass-kickin' lesson ya taught the sleazy slut."

Isabel frowned theatrically.

"Has to be true!"

He kissed her then swooped a hand under her skirt and ripped her panties off her.

"I was so turned on, I could have fucked ya in the middle o' the street, ya dumbass."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	49. Creston: Halloween Novelties

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **49\. Creston: Halloween Novelties**

"Green suits ya," Victor said as Isabel put on her viking tunic.

He better like it. She had spent the week sewing from morning to night. Sort of. She had gone online and searched for viking clothes, then she'd put together simplified versions. Victor had gotten the belts and the bear pelts, then he had made actual boots from the pelts.

"Victor, my love, you can make me boots every winter. Dis are de most comfortable, hot boots I ever had!"

That got a smug smile on his face, and got them late too.

By the time they got to Lena's, they had to drive about before they managed to park. The place was bursting at the seams.

"Ugh, I hate Halloween," Isabel grumbled as she got Lilia out of the car seat.

"How come?"

"Everything is about monsters," she said. ""At least Carnival is about playing and jokes, and I still don't really like masks. But Halloween is all horror and scary and… I don't see de fun."

Victor locked the car then grabbed her by the waist, pulled her against him.

"Is that why ya tried so hard not ta be a vampire? 'Cause if ya ask me, ya make a great vampire."

She didn't answer. He had bought her a pair of fake vampire teeth but she had been adamant: if she was a vampire, he would sport a bloody neck. The teeth had stayed behind.

Isabel held back a smirk when Victor hesitated a few feet from the restaurant. Guess she wasn't the only wanting out of the party.

"Go in?"

"Yeah, let's go in."

* * *

If Don Sherman could have his way, he'd be working in the smallest community he could find in Canada. Well, maybe not the smallest, but definitely anywhere with fewer than 5,000 inhabitants, preferably about 1,000. However, he had a family to think of, so he had compromised: small towns with a nearby school and enough commercial areas that one needn't drive for long when one wanted to buy, say, a tricycle.

Of course his wife would have preferred large cities, and not necessarily because of shopping. She had always enjoyed going to the cinema and attending arts festivals, expecially if they included music and literature. She enjoyed going to the cinema and the theatre, too, and had once been a part of a small theatre group. Much like him, though, she had compromised.

Creston was Don Sherman's second posting with the RCMP. His first one had been in Manitoba, near Brandon, where he had met Amber and, in less than a year, they'd got married. She'd always been a happy cheerful person, optimistic and willing to face the future. Once she'd got pregnant, though, she'd changed a bit, especially once they'd moved to Creston. For some reason, Amber hadn't got on with any of the other Mountie wives in Creston, unlike what had happened in Manitoba, and, despite pretending that she was happy, Don was well aware the lack of friends took a toll. Ending her first pregnancy so far away from her family hadn't made it any easier and, once their baby girl had been born, Amber had ended up fighting against post-partum depression for nearly half a year.

The fact that Creston was closer to what Don loved than to what Amber liked, made him feel guilty, so he had taken up the habit of keeping tabs on any community activity in town and looking excited for participating. This, of course, included the Halloween party at Lena's Place.

Lena's had been their haunt of choice for a year now. The owner's daughter babysat for them regularly and Amber's doctor, Angie Dalton, was also a regular. Both women, Angie and Lena, had eventually become Amber's friends and, slowly, she'd been making more friends amidst the regulars.

Don himself had made a couple of friends, like Colin Ellis, who volunteered at Creston's SAR, or Jacob Clemens, brother-in-law of his colleague Nate, and even Lawson Becker. That young punk was soon to become Nelson Holman's brother-in-law, too. When Don had first arrived in Creston, Nelson was already dating Lyn Becker. Then he'd gotten a call to move elsewhere and, since Lyn didn't want to leave, he'd swapped the Mounties for a barman job. Don and Nelson got on really well and he'd ended up helping the guy keep the troublemaker Lawson in check. He wasn't really a bad kid, anyway, and Lyn was very fond of him.

That night, Don was sitting at Lena's bar counter having a beer while Amber chatted with Loreen Clemens in the other room, where the buffet dinner was centered, so people could have easy access to the stage. The Clemens had three kids, one of whom was Willow's age, and they lived two houses away from Lena's. It was not the least uncommon for Jacob Clemens to host poker games – played for pennies and dimes – and Don often joined the group. Tonight, there was a game set to start in half an hour or so, but Don had promised Amber he'd sit it out. Instead, he'd steeled himself for an annoying night of too much noise and senseless chat.

And then he felt the exact same feeling walk into the place.

Don Sherman had never seen that guy yet. He was tall and wide, built like a quarterback only bigger. The way he scanned the place, looking for potential threats, made Don think he might be a police officer or something similar. Fran met them at the door, welcomed them in, and the annoyance grew into something else. By then, Don was focusing all of his attention on the man, trying to read him as accurately as possible, and then their eyes met. He didn't like Don's steady gaze. He could feel the guy bristling with growing anger… like a troublemaker who's just found an excuse to cause some mayhem.

But then his wife turned to him with a smile, the girl in her arms stretching out for him, and the growing anger flickered away, leaving behind nothing worse than annoyance and forced patience. The blonde spared him a suspicious frown, studying him, then followed his wife to the other room.

Don asked Kent for another beer and moved on to the same room as the newcomers. The family was dressed up like vikings, he noted, looking for something to spark a dialogue. Near the stage, they greeted Angie. Amber and Loreen were sitting on a nearby table, as well as Loreen's sister, Doris.

Lyn and Pru were sitting with Angie. Don knew that Nate was on shift that evening, which meant Lyn was on her own till midnight. Pru, on the other hand, would spend the whole night on her own as Nelson would be working as a barman till late. He always did on busy nights, and Halloween was busy. Adela and her boyfriend, Fred, were also there, but Don wasn't close to that particular pair.

Walking up to apparently join Amber, Don focused on the newcomers. He could tell immediately that the guy was annoyed with the table's company and was more interested in giving his daughter all the attention she wanted. The woman seemed happy to meet up with Angie, and Adela greeted her with her usual cheerfulness, but there was mostly a lukewarm feeling. Anxiety, too. Angie's table was packed and the woman was a bit uncomfortable. Don guessed she didn't know that many people yet and was nervous that she couldn't sit with the people she was already comfortable with.

The man breathed out with annoyance and looked around him, looking for a free table to sit at, Don guessed, and he decided to make a move.

"Hey, there."

That got him swiftly inspected from head to toe. He had the distinct feeling the man was studying him much the same way Don had been doing.

"I didn't know there were vikings in town. Newcomers?"

There was something unnerving in that icy gaze and Don decided to steer him to the bar, away from Amber. Perhaps go outside for a smoke.

"We arrived last month," he said, calculating his every word. "I didn't know there were pirates in town. Ain't Creston a bit landlocked?"

Don looked down at his stupid striped pants and the fake foam sword, then he looked back at the guy. Following a sudden gut feeling, he smirked.

"Last time I checked, vikings were pirates too."

A spike of amusement and the tension in the man's body eased.

"Yeah. But vikings had a good fashion sense." He glanced down at Don's pants. "If ya know what I mean."

"Touche. I'm Don Sherman, by the way."

"Victor Creed-Kredall, an' this here is my lil' viking: Lilia Victoria. Say 'hi', baby girl."

The ease of that introduction threw Don off his balance. The level of annoyance and suspicion just a minute ago didn't fit in with…

"And my Isabel," Don looked and realised that Lyn and Pru were already introducing the woman to Amber, Loreen and Doris. "I call her Nesi, fer short. It's a Spanish nickname."

The woman, Isabel, looked expectantly as her husband said 'He's Don Sherman'.

"Oh, hi!" She beamed shallowly. "Lyn and Pru told me about you. You work wid Nate, right? How are you?"

Don nodded a commonality and the woman turned to Amber with eagerness, saying Rosie babysat Lilia and that she'd mentioned Willow was the sweetest girl around. He could tell she was anxious to make a connection with the women, but it made sense, he guessed. If the family had just arrived and they hadn't yet made friends… On the other hand, he wasn't exactly interested in letting the guy's family get too close to his own.

"So, I hear ya're a mountie, huh? I'm in the security field too, but I work fer big companies abroad. All very hush-hush. Apparently, pirates these days favor fancy suits and ain't as easy ta spot as in the good ol' days."

Once more, the information offered didn't match the caution he could still feel emanating from the man. There was something not quite right. The girl got restless and he tried to distract her.

"Pappa knows ya don't like noise, baby girl, but ya gotta get used ta it. There's no two ways 'bout it. No, there ain't."

Once more, Don got a weird feeling. You don't force babies to get used to clatter, outside being able to sleep with a low level of noise. At least as far as he knew.

"Rosie is babysitting some of the younger kids in the other room," he decided to say. "It's quieter."

That got the guy's attention, and he quickly told his wife he was taking the girl to Rosie. It was a lapse in his judgement, really. Don had still been looking to get the man further away from Amber and he hadn't expected Willow to come running to him, yelling 'daddy, daddy, 'ook!"

He crouched to look at the doll, its face freshly scribbled with felt tip pens, as uneasiness bristled inside. He tried to coach her back to the toys and the other kids, where Rosie and Marissa were busy with the children, but unfortunately, the girl looked up and pointed at the man's kid.

"Baby," she said, eyes shining.

The man took a cautious step to the side, before crouching and sitting his daughter on the floor, close to Willow. It was a completely different type of caution, though: he was clearly trying to keep his distance from… Don frowned, trying to make sense of the vibes he was getting. He was… He was trying to avoid being seen as a threat.

Willow giggled and tried to hug the baby but the little one fussed and pushed her away.

"Stop it, Victoria. Ya play nice, now. The girl is tryin' ta make friends with ya, so ya play nice."

Willow looked unsure, then gave the baby her doll. Once more, she grumbled and pushed the doll away angrily.

"That ain't no way ta act, Victoria!" He picked up the doll and rubbed it with his hands. "She is bein' nice and ya gonna say thank you, got it? That's how ya make friends."

"No!" Willow shouted indignantly, lunging for the doll, but Don grabbed her by an arm.

"Ya're right," the man said, still rubbing the doll. "Ya didn't give it ta me so I ain't got no business playin' with yer dolly. But don't ya worry none, girly, 'cause Victoria is very happy ya wanna share yer dolly. Ain't ya, Victoria? Say thank you to the girl, go on. Thank you."

The baby acccepted the doll from her father's hands and took it to her face, started nibbling its nose. There was something strange in that whole scene.

The man then scolded the baby for chewing on toys that weren't hers and carefully made her stretch the doll till Willow took it back. Her brown eyes very wide, Willow looked at Don, unsure, then she looked back at the man.

"Dah!" The baby said suddenly, getting on her knees to go after Willow and reaching for the doll. "Daaaaah!"

The guy picked her up, which made her screech angrily.

"She ain't used ta playin' wi' kids just yet. I'm gonna go get her own dollie so she doesn't try ta take yer kid's. I'll be right back."

Willow started following him, but Don stopped her, distracted her with the doll till she went back and joined Kristal.

Shortly afterwards, the man came back, the baby biting her fabric doll with a ferocious frown. He took her to Rosie and joined Don again, anxiety for his daughter muffling anything else. Don frowned. He was devoted to that child, he decided.

"Uh… That's a… I mean, baby pirates seem ta have better fashion sense."

He was testing the waters, looking for a limit so he didn't encroach. Don could feel that clearly. Perhaps the anger and suspicion he'd felt before was mostly due to being in a crowded place where he knew no one. Maybe he was about as thrilled with Halloween parties and costumes as Don himself.

"My Victoria is ten months old," he added.

"Willow is two years old," Don gave in, and a wave of relief rolled out of the man.

"Isabel's been tryin' ta find play mates fer Victoria. Says it ain't good fer babies ta be all by 'emselves all the time. I mean, 'sides the parents, obviously. They're supposed ta learn ta socialise an' stuff."

That's why the man's wife had been eager to hit it off with Amber and her friends, back at the table. He hesitated, but then made up his mind.

"I think she's probably about the same age as the Harper's youngest."

"Harper?" There was a spike of interest and… yeah, some level of hopefulness.

"Harland Harper is a teacher at Canyon-Lister Elementary," he explained. "We sometimes play cards at his brother-in-law's. Doris works at the bank as a clerk. She's a friend of Amber's."

He nodded, alertness coming back to the fore. It was the same stance of before, searching for hidden threats.

"So, this Harper guy… how well d'ya know 'im?"

Oh, yeah, security field alright.

"'Cause a guy says he's a teacher and everyone automatically assumes he's a namby-pansy, but there's all sorts o' people in all sorts o' jobs, an' some teachers… well, let's just say that havin' their throats slit is the least they deserve, if ya know what I mean."

Don got the feeling he didn't deal with tame stuff. The way he automatically looked for the worse in anyone coming near his daughter, he probably dealt with… probably with worse people than Don himself dealt with. Whatever 'security' he was involved in, it was not… He let his gut feeling run freely. It was less defense and more attack. 'Soldier', echoed in his mind. No, not soldier. A security contractor. A mercenary, basically.

"You're ex-military or something?"

Surprise and suspicion shot through the roof, then he went blank. Their eyes met. Don did not have much experience with this sort of thing, but he knew enough to know that Victor Creed-Kredall had learnt to hide thoughts and emotions from telepaths and empaths. Besides that, his icy eyes could have belonged to the coldest, most heartless murderer in the world.

"I've met a few guys in the military. They're all…" Don waved a hand and forced himself to relax, as if he wasn't giving the conversation much importance. "Everyone's got skeletons, and it isn't safe till they've all been dug up and dissected. Plenty of police officers are the same, true, but you got that military vibe."

The man didn't answer, and Don still couldn't sense the slightest feeling coming off him. Had probably had professional training. Perhaps he dealt with mutants regularly. Why else would he need training against them?

"I don't blame you. I've been lucky that I don't have to deal with the worst of humanity that often, but, yeah, some people act like they're the nicest human beings when they're nothing but monsters. It's why I prefer working in small towns. I've seen things…" Don shook his head. "Anyway, Harland Harper isn't the nicest guy I've ever met, but he's decent. And he _is_ trustworthy around the children. _That_ I can guarantee."

"How can ya be so sure?"

Don looked at the man's icy eyes. He was a mutant. The idea hadn't been fueled by any gut feeling, since the guy was still stonewalling his emotions, but the anti-telepath training, the way he'd rubbed his hands all over the doll before his daughter had been willing to pick it up, the way he'd mentioned the girl disliked noise and that she had to get used to it, his bulk, his stance… Maybe it was just the girl who was a mutant, but… It had struck him as odd from the beginning and, even if he was not an expert, he knew enough.

"There's ways of knowing," Don said purposely, holding his gaze. "I've got a feeling you know such ways as well as I do."

The man held his gaze, the iciness less aggressive than a moment ago.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Ya could say I know quite a few ways."

A warning. He was dangerous, Don confirmed to himself.

"But most ways," he lowered his voice, "ain't ever necessary. Not unless my woman an' child are involved."

Don mulled it over and focused his senses to the utmost.

"A father does everything for his child."

The man nodded solemnly and Don was able to vaguely grasp a deadly determination behind… no, not behind. It was bolstering the man's psychic defenses.

" _Any_ thin' whatsoever."

Don forced a half grin of confidence and looked over at the children.

"I know _exactly_ what you mean."

"Good." The guy said pointedly. "So. This Harper guy is safe wi'the kids, huh?"

Don shrugged.

"Feel free to check for yourself and get back to me if I'm wrong."

"Don't mind if I do."

His defense softened slightly and Don could tell he was a bit tense, but he felt confident, too.

"I'm gonna get myself a beer. D'ya want one, Don?"

Don looked at him and the guy's defense lowered even further, allowing him to sense serene confidence. No, not confidence. It was more self-assurance bordering on cockiness. Of course, he was doing that on purpose so Don could read him. The guy could be faking those feelings, though. Especially because the cockiness seemed to imply nobody could face him. He was definitely a mutant, and whatever powers he had, they made him a dangerous enemy. That much was certain in Don's mind.

"Sure."

Don breathed out the accumulated tension as he glanced at his daughter. Well, he'd been posted in Creston two years ago. Another one to three years, and he'd surely be posted somewhere else. If he ever felt that man was becoming a danger that he couldn't handle, all he had to do was request to move to the least desired location in Canada. His family would be out of the asshole's reach in no time.

"Here," Don took the bottle. "An' try not ta do that again."

Huh? The man looked at him.

"I don't like bein' _read_. Makes no nevermind ya didn't go inside my mind. I still don't like it."

He was trying to clear the air, but he had also taken him for a telepath. Perhaps he should let him keep on thinking that.

"Nobody does," Don shrugged.

"Ya mean nobody who knows ya're doin' it," he smirked, his gaze on the children.

Don took a sip of the beer, annoyed. No one had ever noticed he was a mutant. In fact, Amber was the only one who knew about it, no one else, and only because he'd told her. It was unsettling to have been made so easily by a dangerous man, but, at the same time… The guy was a mutant himself. Don didn't think he'd ever met a mutant before. Not in the sense of talking to them socially, he meant. Still, it was risky.

"Look, I didn't come ta this hole in the middle o' nowhere ta step on anyone's toes, if that's what ya're thinkin'. I'm just lookin' fer a safe place ta raise my girl, and I know ya can tell I'm sayin' the truth. 'Sides, don't ferget you're the one who's been doin' the steppin' on."

Don shook his head, annoyance breaking through.

"If you don't want to step on anyone's toes," he hissed, "I suggest you shut up for good. Most folks, they only need to imagine they're getting their toes stepped on. All it takes is overhearing a suspicious word."

"I see what ya mean," he said quietly. "Ya're right. No caution's too much."

The guy's daughter was finally warming up to the group and, for the first time, Rosie was able to focus on other kids without the girl promptly crying for her. It was also the moment when Willow and Kristal decided to shower her with hugs and kisses. The baby girl fussed and complained at the attention, but she took Willow's scribbled doll, to the delight of the two toddlers.

"Ya probably don't really care 'bout it," the man said in a low voice, "what would ya bein' a mountie an' gettin' shipped around every two or three years. But I was wonderin' if ya've checked all the elementary teachers."

Every two or three years? He was outdated in his intel. It was more like three to five years these days. Some lucky asses had even made it to ten years, though that was definitely not the norm.

"Only the ones I've come in touch with so far."

He nodded and finished his beer.

"I intend ta check every single one of 'em. Ya never know who my daughter will end up gettin' in touch with, after all. I'll let ya know if I dig up anythin' fishy. If ya're interested, that is."

If the guy really was serious when he said he was only there to raise his child in a safe environment, then it might turn out useful to be on the same page. It might even turn out… I don't know, pleasant, maybe.

"If it's a solid lead."

He threw the bottle into a rubbish bin and went over to crouch near his daughter. Since Willow was still playing at hugs and kisses, though, Don joined him.

"Yer girl takes after her Mamma, huh?"

Don frowned immediately. He didn't want him near his family till he was sure he was up to no mischief.

"I just mean she's trustin', that's all. Victoria takes after me: she'll distrust everyone till I convince her it's ok." He made the baby roll over, which had her laughing. "I told ya, baby girl: Lil' Willow is tryin' ta make friends with ya. Play nice!"

Suddenly, a gong went off in the restaurant. Drats.

"What was that?"

"Time for the costume contest," Don grumbled.

"Just great," the guy grumbled. "I'd fergotten 'bout that."

Don shrugged and picked up Willow.

"There are worse things."

"Oh, yeah?" He got up with his girl, too. "Such as?"

"Being forced into singing karaoke."

He snorted.

"There'd be blood if anyone ever tried ta force me inta somethin' like that."

Somehow, Don got the impression he meant it close to literally.

* * *

"…was in a theatre club," Isabel reported excitedly through the car drive. "They did a _musical_ one time, and Amber had singing classes. Well, was just one month of classes, in preparation to de play, but she was really…"

She sighed, the excitement fading slightly, as Victor parked in the garage. Why was he so quiet?

"Anyway, I don't want be too optimistic and say Amber was happy to meet me but… I liked her, you know. Loreen and her sister Doris are nice too… Oh! And Loreen is part of the choir, only she's in maternity leave for the time being. But Amber… I _really_ liked her."

They had clicked when Isabel had mentioned she'd abandoned her country to come to Canada with her husband and baby daughter. Isabel explained to Victor that the other woman had had to leave her town in Manitoba, which was somewhere in Canada and, much like Isabel, Amber missed the pleasure of living amidst one's home town, knowing most everyone around. She knew he wouldn't understand why she found that parallel so powerful, but she tried to make him accept that it was important nonetheless.

And then, the theatre! Isabel had never really participated in theatre plays, but a friend of hers had and, besides, she'd performed in a choir so she knew what it was like getting on a stage for a public performance. Amber's eyes had shone as she mentioned going on the stage, and talking about her experiences with the singing teacher, too.

Lilia had fallen asleep during the drive, so Victor took her straight to her crib, Isabel dragging herself thoughtfully behind him. He hadn't told her much about Don Sherman. He'd mentioned he was a mutant but then had refused to say what powers he suspected the guy had. It had made her uneasy, both his general silence and his unwillingness to tell her about the man. On a hunch, she'd asked if he was a telepath.

"What's yer fixation with his powers?" Victor had grumbled. "That ain't the point!"

No, the point was that he was a mutant. What did she care if he was an alien! The only thing that mattered to her was what his abilities were. Focusing only on him being a mutant and, therefore, being someone to connect with because of his genetics alone, was about the same as saying that a blonde is the perfect friend just because they're blonde, nevermind likes and dislikes. But no. He'd deflected the conversation back to the women, focusing on the two sisters, Doris and Loreen. She'd given in and reported all the details she'd learnt..

"Loreen works in de laundry and has three children: one, two and four years. Nowadays, her only hobby is going to de cinema… and is about one time a month. She's always busy. Doris is a clerk in de bank and she has a girl – she's nine months and I already talked about visit dem on Sunday so Lilia Victoria can meet her – and she has a boy, three years. Doris likes cinema, too. Dat is what dey and Amber have in common: cinema."

Victor had pointed out she didn't care about films, which was true, but she liked checking their soundtracks so she could work that angle. Loreen apparently liked musicals, too.

"And I can always memorise de list of actors and de resume of de films dey like." Synopsis, he'd corrected. "Isso. Friends don't have to like everything de same, you know. Dey like de films, I like de soundtrack. Works perfect!"

Lilia had nearly woken up as they'd lay her on the crib, and Victor had crouched next to her, holding her little hand till she was deep asleep. Feeling tired, and knowing she'd have to be up to feed the child in a couple of hours, Isabel kissed Victor's forehead and said she was going to bed.

As she got to the bedroom, though, she sat on the bed with a sigh. She still hadn't given up on Lena: she was reserved and a bit of a workaholic, but Isabel liked her. She was friendly and had a practical no-nonsense approach to problems. But Amber… once the girls were older, they could organise little theatre plays. Musicals! If Doris's and Loreen's kids tagged along, it would be great fun.

She got up and started taking off the viking dress. She hoped Victor had liked Don Sherman. She really wanted him to make friends too. Someone he could meet in the evening and go to a bar to drink beer and watch sport, or whatever guys enjoy doing, unless he was a telepath, that is. But, hopefully, the guy's powers wouldn't be anything dangerous.

Isabel jumped when she felt a hand groping her, and slapped the arm immediately. Perhaps a bit too sharply, from Victor's sudden frown. She didn't want to tell him she didn't like it when he snuck up on her like that. Sometimes, it reminded her of… let's not think about unpleasant things.

"You scare me," she stuck her tongue out.

Hopefully, he'd think that slap had been supposed to be playful too.

He grinned, the frown disappearing. He pulled her to him and kissed her lazily. Oh, she'd need to be up again soon… He slid out his claws and trailed them softly up her back. Giving in, she broke the kiss and pulled his furry jacket.

"So, Mr Viking, where is your big, bad axe?"

He chuckled and pushed her onto the bed. Down to her underwear, Isabel enjoyed the short-lived stripping session. One of these days, she'd get him to do it properly for her. Nice and teasingly slow.

He climbed onto the bed, a claw ripping her bra into two (why hadn't she taken it off before he could ruin yet another one?), and held her chin securely.

"So, Ms Vampire, where are yer big, bad fangs?"

She laughed.

"Dat means you want be bitten?"

He kissed her before saying he doubted she had enough of a bite for him. Well, if that was his game! Isabel pushed him gently until he lay on the bed on his back, then stradled him and kissed his neck, nibbling it gently so she wouldn't repeat the disaster that had happened back in Portugal.

"Ya call that bitin'?" He pushed her away with an annoyed growl.

"You want dat I bite your jugular by accident again?"

His frowned deepened.

"As if a lil' bite was gonna bother my healin' factor," he scoffed. "And I wasn't thinkin' 'bout no accidents. I told ya ta bite me, didn't I?"

Did that mean he had liked it? Her heart beat faster at the idea. Because she had fantasised about biting his neck open again. Quite a few times, actually.

"Get out of de bed," he grabbed her arm as she tried to unstradle him. "I am not going to make a mess in de bed, Victor. De floor is more easy to clean."

Not to mention it was easier to replace a carpet regularly than a mattress. Isabel slid off the panties and stradled him again. Giggling a bit, she kissed his neck lightly before getting ready to…

"No," he pushed her away. "That ain't the right spot. It's right here, see?"

He slid out a claw and cut his skin very lightly. Isabel licked the thin wound and bit down hard. He hissed softly as blood came gushing out and she pulled back.

"Lick it," he said. "Quickly, 'fore the wound heals."

She did so. It tasted metalic, his blood, and a bit salty too. She engulfed the wound in her mouth and suckled.

"Oh, yeah," he purred, his claws scraping softly down to her hips, and she suckled harder, but got the impression the healing was mostly finished.

Straightening up, she looked down at all the blood coating his skin. She didn't have much time to appreciate the result, though, as he pulled her in for a hungry kiss, then licked the blood off her chin before kissing her neck and biting down on her shoulder.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry," he pushed her away breathlessly, rubbed his tumb on her face. "Sorry, didn't mean ta break skin."

But then he went back and licked the little wound. That was a nice feeling. Thoughtfully, Isabel put a hand on the nape of his neck as he nibbled around the bitten spot, occasionally going back to lick it.

"Ya taste so good," he whispered.

"Is ok," she said quietly. "You can bite if you want."

He stopped and slowly looked her in the eye.

"I don't wanna hurt ya," he said seriously.

"Is just a little bite," she smiled, but she felt a bit nervous and she was sure he'd noticed it.

When he bit her again, this time closer to her collar bone, she could feel his fangs sinking in and she clenched her teeth to hold back any hiss of complaint. Then he licked the spot gently, sucked a bit.

"Dat feels good," she told him.

And it did. It felt relaxing and comforting. She closed her eyes and he kept licking the bite area.

"Hey, are you asleep?"

Isabel's eyes shot open.

"No, no! I was just… uh… what's de word… enjoying!"

He didn't seem much convinced even as he kissed her lips.

"You like when I bite you and make blood?" He nodded and Isabel let her trim fingernails trail his chest.

She had often bit him before, and had even drawn blood on several occasions, but he had never said he liked it... of course, he'd never complained either. Anyway, his wounds closed so quickly that it had never even ocurred to her to be careful till that day back in Portugal. But if it turned out he enjoyed it and had simply never bothered to mention it...

"Tell me where I can bite."

"Anywhere ya want," he smiled.

" _Any_ where?" She arched an eyebrow and he chuckled.

" _Almost_ anywhere."

She leaned over and gently nibbled his shoulder.

"Here?"

"Yeah."

She kissed his chest softly then grabbed his nipple in between her teeth, pressing slightly before letting go.

"Here?"

"Yeah," his voice came out hoarsely and she looked up at him.

He was taking in deep breaths and Isabel got mesmerised by the intensity of his gaze for a moment. It was really just a moment, though, as he kissed her suddenly, almost violently, and she had to actually fight to push him away for a second.

"Do me first," she demanded under his frustrated growl. "I let you bite me, so you do me first."

Because she was far more sleepy than horny, tonight, which meant she needed a proper warm up, especially as he seemed to be spoiling for some hard and fast action. She didn't need to insist, though. He plunged down, his fangs teasing her skin as his tongue roused her body.

She could still taste his blood on her lips and she licked them. It did taste good. She could get used to this, even if it meant letting him bite her a bit more seriously on occasion. She could really get used to it.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	50. Creston: Happy Birthday

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **50\. Creston: Happy Birthday**

Holding his woman in his lap as she nursed their daughter, Creed felt happy. He couldn't stop himself from nibbling her skin. He liked biting women in the heat of the moment, letting their blood spice him even further, but he'd never done that to Isabel before. It excited him to no end that she'd said it was ok without him asking for it.

Of course he hadn't bitten her for real again since Friday. He'd let those bite marks heal first. Or at least that was the plan. Isabel, on the other hand, was biting hard enough to seriously break skin at least twice a night. Damn, he was getting turned on just thinking about it! Sure, there had been some fails – rolling his nipples in her teeth felt great till she bit down hard, for instance – but that was not the point. Sex with the woman was going from good to great and, the more she learnt what he enjoyed, the better it got.

She sighed in his arms and leaned her head against him, closed her eyes tiredly.

He swallowed down a disappointed growl as he realised there would be no getting up sex this morning. The sun would be up soon and Isabel was probably going to trade the morning work-out for some sleep. She'd still have her self-defense class, though, he was not letting her get out of that one.

The problem was that the woman was just a regular human, and as much as she enjoyed sex, she was no nymphomaniac. Those were constantly turned on, while his Nesi… let's just say she needed to be worked up a little sometimes. And on occasion, she'd just give him a 'not right now' or a 'I need a break'. Not that he was complaining! Far from it. Isabel did tease him into sex of her own volition, and she was often genuinely turned on when she teased him. Even if there were times when she started the ball running when she wasn't turned on.

That had worried him for a long time, as he knew she wanted sex whenever her past ghosts raised an ugly head. Eventually, though, he'd realised bad memories weren't the only thing at play and now he supposed that she asked for sex simply because she wanted cuddling. Must think he didn't like it much, so she went for the middle ground of sex first, cuddling afterwards. It made sense and, again, he wasn't about to complain. He did like both, after all, and he didn't discriminate against which came first.

The woman tensed in his arms and lifted up Victoria. Must have finished the meal and switched to chewing. He grabbed her so Isabel could clean up.

"Ya really need ta cut out the nipple bitin'," he told her with mock grouchiness. "Everyone already knows that ain't fun."

Isabel laughed behind him then kissed his bare back. Maybe he'd get lucky after all.

"I'm sorry," she said as he put an arm around her and pulled her in for a kiss.

"Don't be," he told her. "Just 'cause I don't want a repeat, it don't mean I didn't kinda like it."

She laughed out loud, causing Victoria to grumble sleepily, and he couldn't smile wide enough at her playful 'masochist' jab. She slapped his ass when he was laying the girl in her crib.

"Sorry, but no training today. I'm tired and I need to sleep a little, or I fall asleep during dinner tonight."

There: he'd called it.

"Ya'll still practise self-defense."

She shrugged and went back to bed. With a sigh, he leaned over the crib.

"I knew yer Mamma's interest would die in no time. But you an' me, we gotta make sure she keeps improvin', ya hear? It's up to us t'make sure she's as safe as possible, an' that means she's gotta know how t'defend herself."

* * *

It was the first time Creed and Isabel were having dinner without Victoria, who wasn't really that far away, as Rosie was playing with her in the small room next to the restaurant's entrance.

Unfortunately, it wasn't turning out to be a nice evening. The way it was going, he was probably going to spend the night on the verge of going berserk with frustration in the woods.

Creed had prepared everything so carefully! He knew Isabel had been pissed with the whole fake birthday celebration, so he'd told Lena dinner was supposed to be less birthday and more romance, which meant no cake and no 'happy birthday'. They'd have the typical candles and red roses in a little vase, and the menu had been chosen beforehand: scallops with actual Portuguese chorizo for starters, a seafood fricot, halibut with prawns and, for dessert, rice pudding which, according to Isabel, was the most typical Portuguese dessert at any party. He'd rather have some of those traditional pastries every Portuguese café was packed with – way better than rice pudding if you asked him – but since it was the woman's birthday. Whatever. The overdose of seafood was also a nod to her love for fish. Oh! And Portuguese white wine he'd picked on purpose for the occasion, as well as Porto wine and sour cherry liquor for a double digestive.

He had actually bothered to go online and look for suggestions of romantic gifts for one's wife and had ended up shocked with half those suggestions. He was no romantic asshole, but even he knew that giving your wife sleeping masks, coffee presses or wooden hammers was anything but romantic, and it made no nevermind how customised and deluxed they supposedly were.

Then there were tons of personalised keychains, mugs, pillows and wall pictures. He supposed those counted as romantic – at least a few of them – but they weren't impressive enough, not to mention they weren't exactly paradable around town. Personalised rings and pendants would have been the perfect thing – traditional, classy, and romantic – but Isabel only ever wore her little gold crucifix and had actually grumbled against wearing the rubi ensemble he'd gotten her back in Portugal. He'd spent a ton of money on that crap and she didn't give a shit about it! No way he was getting her more jewellery just so she could bury it inside a box.

So he had ended up getting her a non-personalised blanket scarf. It was a deluxe cashmere fabric in a red and black plaid pattern. It wasn't sexy… unless she wore it over her naked body that is. Anyway, it wasn't sexy while worn in public, but it looked every bit as expensive as it had been and it fit Isabel perfectly.

Unfortunately, the woman had gotten pissed. It had been his mistake, he was even ready to admit it. He had stupidly given her the scarf back in the house and, the moment she had seen the box, her already annoyed expression had gone straight to angry. He knew she didn't want fake birthdays so why hadn't he thought about giving the unwanted fake birthday present at the restaurant? That way, she'd have had to pretend she was thrilled with it.

She had put the scarf on with wrathful silence, after warning him never, _ever!_ to give her any type of present unless she first said she wanted one. It didn't matter if it was fake or real birthdays, not even Christmases! Not a single present for no reason whatsoever. That was taking the whole thing overboard, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut during the drive into town. Actually, he was smart enough to warn her she'd be getting a bouquet of a dozen red roses the moment she waltzed into the restautant.

"Flowers are the most stupid gift anyone can give a woman," she hissed in furious Portuguese. "And red roses are the _worst_ of them!"

"Ain't they supposed ta be all romantic an' cheesy?"

She scoffed.

"Red roses mean: lack of imagination, lack of effort, lack of will to even think about what a particular woman really likes. Oh, and they're also a very traditional way of saying 'see how much money I spent on you? Now you'll have to put on a nice, happy face and accept to kiss and fuck me.' And you know what, Victor Creed? There's no man going to be buying me with stupid gifts, do you understand? Not even you! What you get from me is what I want to give you, not what you pressure me into with stupid gifts. Especially because those gifts aren't even really for me. They're just a flashy show for the people in town."

Ok, she was stuck in Portuguese mode and would be fuming through the night. Just great! And to think he'd wasted so much time having everything perfect so she wouldn't be so mad about the fake birthday.

"I am not trying to buy you," he said in a mix of Portuguese and Spanish in order to sooth her, though, to be honest, he had thought all the maneuvering would buy him a break. "I am supposed to be a loving husband and I figured that meant red roses. That's all."

"Well, it doesn't!"

But she sounded less personally attacked so he persevered. He wasn't exactly looking forward to one hour of indigestion.

"You know I am not a romantic man, Nesita. I just did what everyone does in the films and ads. Can you explain what I should have done so that people think I love you more than anything?"

That got an aggravated sigh out of her, but she wasn't fuming anymore. She shook her head and remained in silence till he parked the car.

"Listen," her voice was finally approaching calm composure, even if she was still stuck in Portuguese. "It isn't _what_ you give. It isn't even _giving_. It's… doing something that makes the other person happy."

Uh-huh.

"And how exactly does that translate to a 'loving fake birthday present'?"

She grunted, annoyance back.

"I don't know. Something that can't be bought is a good start."

What was that supposed to mean?

"Ok, imagine it's the 4th of April: my fake birthday. What do you give me to show everyone you love me more than anything?"

"That is the problem, see? I don't give you anything to _show_ _people_ anything. I give you something that I know will make _you_ happy. If it's something no one can see, and if it really matters that people are aware of it, then I'll just mention it to friends and neighbours so they'll know. But the town people are secondary, do you understand?"

So, basically, giving Isabel gifts was a two edged sword: on the one hand, it couldn't be anything bought; on the other hand, it had to be focused on her and not on the people around. She did not make this easy. At all!

"You haven't said what you'd give me yet."

She bristled.

"Of course not! A proper gift takes a lot of thinking. I can't just pick something up in five seconds."

Fair enough, but not as helpful as he needed. He preserved in the mix of Spanish and Portuguese, since the effort did wonders for her mood.

"So what should I have given you, woman?" A thought crossed his mind. "Didn't you say I don't know anything about being in love? That you were going to give me pointers? Well, I'm waiting for those fucking pointers!"

She sighed and her shoulders sagged as some of the tension left her body. He really should have thought about that argument sooner.

"I don't know… Portuguese music. You could have asked Dalton to play a list of nothing but Portuguese songs I like and to hell with everyone else. And next time, you can say that you don't really give me presents on my birthday because you prefer to give me presents whenever you feel like, any time of the year. That's way more romantic, you know? Just giving the person you love something… and I don't mean something physical. A surprise, maybe that's a better word. It's way more romantic to surprise the person you love with something that makes them happy instead of waiting for birthdays and anniversaries and Valentines and special crappy occasions."

Sure, he could do that. And since she was finally calm, not to mention she could have laid this out for him when the birthday dinner had first been decided a week ago, Creed decided to repay her uncalled for fury.

"Just so ya knows," he returned to English. "I'd rather somethin' physical fer my fake birthday. I did spend money on that fancy cashmere, so I expect ta get repaid in kind."

She shot him a withering glare and he grinned.

"I love it when ya're pissed like that. Makes me wanna fuck yer brains out."

She left and banged the door so hard the jeep swayed and Victoria jumped, startled. Damn! But the woman picked her up and soothed her just as the child was starting to wail her scare. He got out in time to see her glare then head over to the restaurant. Well, it wasn't his fault she had banged the door and frightened the girl!

Yeah. He would definitely be spending the night cooling down in the woods, while the woman cooled down inside the house. This was going to be a hell of a dinner!

Taking a deep breath to get himself in an appropriate frame of mind, Creed headed to the restaurant. Isabel was already with Rosie and he leaned on the door. Kristal was in the play area and she was clapping happily at the baby, trying to hug and kiss her despite being pushed away. As Isabel finally got up and looked at him, she breathed out forcefully. He felt like just leaving. Picking up his baby girl and heading off to any place for as long as there were no people around. Not even the cross Isabel! He was sick and tired of all this socialising.

The woman stopped by him and put an unwilling arm around his waist. He put an equally unwilling arm over her shoulder and they headed to their table.

It was isolated, a bit towards the usually empty dancing floor, and there was a high stool with the dumb bouquet right next to it. Neither Dalton nor his wife Angie were around tonight, but there was background music. Probably a list of the cheesiest romantic songs Lena had come up with.

"Dey're beautiful," Isabel said with a yellow smile, after sniffing the flowers. Which had no perfume, since most florist roses have nearly no scent at all.

They both sat down and he noticed Isabel's eyes wandering through the table top.

"So, you want de steak as usual?"

"Uh…" This had better not blow in his face. "I arranged somethin' different fer tonight."

Her eyes shone angrily.

"Are you saying," she hissed in Portuguese, "that you arranged a menu without even _bothering_ to ask me what I wanted?"

He remembered the discussion in the car just in time.

"It was supposed ta be a _surprise_."

"I do _not_ like surprises," she hissed back.

Was the woman for real? She had just told him surprises were romantic!

"And here," Both Creed and Isabel sat back with fake grins at the sound of Lena's voice, "are your entries. Scallop with chorizo. Enjoy!"

They both thanked with fake happiness before focusing on the plates. It wasn't that he didn't like shellfish, it's more that he'd rather eat something with more substance.

"What is… uh… scallop?"

"Vieira," he offered in Spanish.

She tried it and he followed suit, both in grateful silence. The entry was almost finished when she asked why in a whisper.

"Why what?"

"Why you choose dis. I thought you didn't like fish."

At least she wasn't speaking in Portuguese anymore.

"I've eaten way worse stuff. 'Sides, it ain't fish; it's shellfish." He shrugged. "I chose it 'cause ya're all hung up on fresh fish an' stuff and there ain't much in the way o' fresh variety in the middle o' the mountains. Figured ya'd like it, that's all."

Stupid asshole that he was. He really didn't know why he'd bothered…

"Thank you," she said quietly, cutting off his thoughts. "I liked a lot."

Wait… It had worked?

"The chorizo was actual Portuguese chouriço," he explained suddenly. "I told Lena I'd pay the extra cost of havin' it imported but apparently there's a food store in Ontario that actual produces the stuff nationally but the traditional way, so it ain't expensive."

Isabel chuckled. For the first time in the evening, she genuinely smiled.

"Serious? I didn't know dat."

"I also chose a seafood fricot." He signalled Franny to come and get their plates then noticed Isabel's quizzical frown. "It's French Canadian. It's suposedly a stew but it sometimes looks more like soup. This one's a kind o' fish soup, basically."

For some reason, she wasn't happy with the idea. Now what? He knew she liked fish soup. She'd said so herself, back in Portugal.

Once the bowls were ahead of them, she nibbled her lower lip then took a sip from the spoon.

"Is very good," she nodded. "But… I don't want dat you eat something you don't like just because of me. Are lots of things dat we two like, so is no need dat you make sacrifices for me."

Oh, so that was the problem.

"I never said I don't like fish," he shrugged. "I actually really like salmon cooked on an open fire! Any fresh fish cooked on an open fire, really."

"So… you liked de sardines in Portugal?"

"Yeah, on the bread. They were great!" And then he caught himself. "It don't mean I won't rather eat meat, but I still liked the sardines cooked on the coal. Just not boiled fish, or stewed, or whatever. _That_ , I really don't like."

She chuckled an unamused 'good to know' and Creed relaxed. Maybe the night was turning around, after all. By the time the grilled hallibut with prawns found their table, the woman looked like her usual self. He was still on his guard, though.

"There's one thing I don't get," he ended up saying. "Ya told me that the most romantic gift is a surprise gesture. But then ya said ya don't like surprises."

She grimaced lightly.

"Surprises are… like luck. Sometimes you have no luck and de surprise is bad. Many sometimes. I prefer surprises when I know about dem."

That had him chuckling, also unamused.

"That don't make much of a surprise." She shrugged. "What about that 'no present ever' story? How much of it was real, and how much was just ya bein' mad?"

"One thousand percent real," she said, promptly serious. "Don't give me presents."

"I gave ya a music CD once and ya liked it."

She frowned.

"Dat was not a present. Dat was you saying dat you wanted to hear me play de songs in de CD. Is different."

"I gave ya that set o' necklace and earrings, the rubi ones."

She rolled her eyes.

"Yes, and dat expensive night dress and de shoes and de gold watch. Nothing of dat was a present, Victor. You wanted dat I looked like a queen to impress de people and… yeah, dat was a present you gave to yourself, not to me."

Creed frowned as he realised she was right. He thought bettter about it.

"I bought ya the Lisbon an' the Alentejo houses. An' that New York block, too."

"Uh-hun," she nodded. "But dat was really a financial indemnisation, wasn't? Because of… what happened. Was de only reason you gave me de houses. And de house here in Creston, de car… dat is not a present, too. Dat is organising de life of our daughter. Around our daughter."

"So… no presents."

She nodded then sighed.

"I am not saying I will be mad if you bring me a music CD. Again, because you like dat music and want dat I learn it. Or chocolate for _us_ , not me. But I don't want presents. You know, wid pretty paper and bows. And nothing expensive. Never nothing expensive."

It was not going to help him look all loving in town if he couldn't give her presents he could boast about.

"That'll make Christmas difficult."

He remembered the Christmas they'd spent in Portugal, just before Victoria's birth. Isabel had said there was no need for a Christmas tree or Christmas presents. All she required was the Nativity scene and a ton of Christmas recipes, according to her. At the time, he'd welcomed the avoidance of the full holiday crap. Come to think of it, he'd still rather carry on with the minimalist approach. However…

"Or are ya thinkin' 'bout a 'no present' Christmas? That don't seem right ta me. On account o' Victoria, I mean. Kids like Christmas presents."

She shrugged.

"I'm thinking more like, I say what I need: a coat, boots, something. And den you buy it. And you tell me what you want and I buy it. Is more like… taking de opportunity to buy things dat we actually need."

"What about the romantic part?"

She chuckled.

"Define 'romantic'."

She giggled when he said 'cheesy', adding she thought he didn't like 'cheesy'.

The conversation got interrupted when Franny came in to take their plates then bring the dessert… which did not look like rice pudding. Back in Portugal, he'd always seen it in small, wide cups topped with some powdered cinnamon stripes. This looked like an ice-cream scoop topped with caramel and raspberry. If his nose wasn't tricking him, there wasn't a shade of cinammon in the thing… and he could see raisins through the glass.

"Uh… This was supposed ta be rice puddin'," he grumbled. "I told Lena it was this typical dessert ya loved and…"

"Don't worry," she laughed. "I have cousins in France and I know dey usually put caramel in de rice pudding. I suppose in Canada dey also put raisins. Is de idea dat counts."

Good thing her mood had turned around.

"So, you were saying you want give me something romantic in Christmas, right?"

He nodded, slightly suspicious over her devilish smirk.

"But is a problem, you see. I don't like cheesy, too. So we need a different romantic."

"What d'ya have in mind?"

She called him closer with a finger and leaned over the table. He took a spoonful of the dessert before following suit. Their foreheads were touching when she told him she wanted something very romantic for Christmas. And he could even choose one and make it a surprise.

"Well, what is it?"

"I want a horse."

Huh?

"What's so romantic 'bout it?"

She held back a giggle.

"I want to have sex while we are riding. Maybe even galloping! But definitely while trotting."

He arched his eyebrows at the thought.

"I like yer idea o' romantic." Isabel sat back with a devilishly smug smirk. "But I ain't sure that's the safest option."

The smirk disappeared into blushing aggravation.

"I mean it'll probably end in a fall and while that don't mean nuthin' t'me, _you_ can easily get a broken neck."

"So you're afraid of falling of de horse. I thought you knew how to ride well."

He growled.

"I don't want _you_ gettin' hurt."

She grumbled a pissed 'as if I haven't been riding since I'm three' in Portuguese and focused back on her pudding. Next time he'd keep his mouth shut. And the worst thing was that the idea had its appeal; it just didn't merit risking the woman's life. What he needed right now was to get her back in that romantic line, so he called her with a finger and leaned forward. Still miffed, she complied.

"Do I have carte blanche to give ya an extra _romantic_ surprise fer yer real birthday?"

She sat back with a frown, which kind of ruined his effort.

"What is dat, card blanche?"

"It means freedom ta do whatever I think will…" Better to press the idea. " _Please_ ya."

She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and took a spoonful of the dessert. Every now and then, she looked him in the eyes while licking the spoon. What was she playing at? Once she had finished the thing she lay her chin on her hand and sighed deeply, her gaze never leaving his.

"Wid one condition." He frowned. He hadn't expected conditions. "You have to guess when is my birthday."

What was she talking about?

"Why don't ya just tell me?"

"Dat is not fun," she shook her head dismissively. "Oh, but you can't guess just de month. You have to guess day _and_ month. And you only have one chance per week."

He was sure his frown clearly said what he thought of it, but she still grinned wickedly as she bit the tip of her tongue at him.

"Ok, I'll be nice. You can have a consolation prize when you lose. What you think: if you guess right, you can do anything you want wid me during de entire night. No! Dat is not fair. Everything you want during _one week_. All romantic and nothing but romantic."

It dawned on him her idea was simply to turn this into a game. She was probably going to drop hints to help him guess and everything. Let's just see what kind of consolation prizes she had in mind.

"But if you lose, I can…" She glanced sideways then leaned closer to him, which he mimicked. "I can fuck your brains out any way I want."

She could… he laughed out loud. Who'd have thought the night would turn this much around!

"I sure like that prize, woman."

And with that impish grin, she knew it all too well.

"Dat means you want make your first guess tonight?"

"Hell, yeah!"

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	51. Creston: Accidents

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **51\. Creston: Accidents**

Isabel got in her car and slowly made her way to the main road. It was early December and she really hated having to drive with so much snow. It was true that the roads were pretty much clear, but the private road that connected the house to the road was a different story. Besides, the roads themselves, as clean of snow as they may be, always risked being icy. Back in Portugal, icy roads would only be a problem early in the morning – or through the night – in very cold days. Here, though, icy conditions could sometimes be present through the whole day. It was dangerous, so she drove slow and carefully. It wouldn't do to be in a car accident, would it? Even if it was a harmless event, Victor would go ballistics and try to lock her inside the house. Again. She really didn't want to get in that kind of prolonged fighting once more.

That particular Saturday, though, wasn't so bad. The late morning sun kept peeking out of the clouds and it was fairly warm, for the season. If Victor had been home, he'd have suggested going hiking in the afternoon. Lilia loved crawling, and now walking too, in the middle of the woods, eager to get every little stone, twig, flower and bug inside her mouth, then spitting it out. Except for the bugs. For some reason, it was the only thing she never spit out. Her baby girl had quickly realised that crawling wasn't as fast as walking, though, and she had resorted to holding on to Pappa's finger and wobbling about, which had diminished the quantity of things she tried to eat.

She couldn't stop smiling at the image of her little baby. She walked very well for a 11-month-old, but with all the practice she had had in her daily trips to the woods, it really was no wonder.

As Isabel drove past Yahk, though, nervousness crept in and she stopped thinking about her baby girl, safely home with Rosie.

She had honestly thought she had fully overcome those weeks of torture. Back in Portugal, especially during the St Antonio festival, she'd been amidst men and not once had she felt threatened. Once in Creston, she hadn't been in close proximity with any men, but she had always felt safe and in control. Sure there was the occasional bad dream, but one nightmare every four or five months really was nothing. She was fine! And then she'd gone to Cranbrook.

It had been during Victor's first job after Lilia's birth. She had taken the chance to go to Cranbrook to an internet cafe so she could contact Jubilee. She still made sure Victor could never come across their communications. She used an email address specifically for contacting Jubilee, and occasionally Kitty, and only at internet cafés. There would never be any accident that would allow Victor to discover those two friendships to people he considered enemies.

Isabel had first gone shopping for clothes. She didn't want to report to him her every step, but she needed him to be aware she was driving about. He might get the idea she was sneaking behind his back and she had to be careful how she taught him that moving about was ok and that reporting her every step was not. The idea had been to comment she'd bought a new dress up in Cranbrook casually, deal with his explosion over it and then keep on doing pretty much the same. He'd have to learn to accept it sooner or later.

Only things hadn't gone according to plan. While sitting at the internet café, a man had occupied a nearby computer. She hadn't even noticed it at first, but he'd dropped something that had rolled under her chair and, as he'd squatted down to get it with a polite 'excuse me', she'd had a panic attack.

She'd managed through it, obviously. She'd clamped down on her fear and remained staring blindly at the screen, soothing herself with strings of 'it's ok' and 'don't be stupid'. She'd prayed through two whole rosaries at neck-breaking speed. Once she'd felt her legs could support her again, she'd stumbled to the car and locked herself in. Slowly, she'd driven back home.

She'd spent the rest of the week dealing with nightmares. Victor had realised something was wrong, naturally. She'd had trouble being her usual self when they talked at night, which, due to his schedules, had been mostly when he had called. The moment she'd admitted to them, he'd cut his job short and had returned.

He'd wanted to lock her up – so what else was new! – and she'd blown up in a fit of temper: she'd go to Cranbrook by herself every single day till she stopped being stupid about these reactions. It was one very understandable thing to get affected by a truly threatening situation, not by a polite man in close proximity for less than five seconds!

That had led to a night of firey, angry sex. Come the morning, she'd resisted through his attempts to gentle entreats, so he'd spent the day at a medium level of constant tantrum while she had marinated in a mix or resentment for his attitude and shamed frustration for her weakness. The evening had ended with another blow up and the following day had been a repeat of the previous.

After nearly a week, they'd come to an understanding: whenever she felt threatened, no matter if there were sound reasons for it or not, she'd contact him immediately, actually calling if it were serious, messaging or texting otherwise. However, he would not interrupt his jobs on her account unless the matter was indeed serious.

And now, here she was. Heart beating wildly inside her chest, she parked the car. She didn't understand: she had walked around Cranbrook for a couple of hours without the slightest apprehension, that last time. Why was she shaking at the thought of leaving the car and joining the people in the street now?

She got the phone and texted Victor in Portuguese, as she didn't feel like making the effort to use English. Her efforts were concentrated on more important things.

 _I'm in Cranbrook. Have just parked the car, really. Everything's calm and there isn't the slightest reason for fear in miles._

A nagging little voice reminded her this wasn't exactly what they had agreed upon, but she told herself she was supposed to text if she felt threatened, not that she was supposed to say it in actual words. On the other hand, this way it looked as if she was willingly reporting her every step to him, and she admitted she didn't like that idea any more than she enjoyed putting her shameful fears into words.

 _I'm only texting because I was wondering if you want me to get you something from Cranbrook_

Although, what could she get him here that she couldn't get in Creston? Well, there was only one way to find out! And she breathed out in relief as she started driving around, looking at the shops as she cruised by, safely inside the car. She was only delaying the inevitable, though. In a way, this was far worse behaviour than admitting to Victor she felt frightened with the idea of entering that internet café. Soon, she turned around and headed back to the café. That was when she spotted it: doctor love! Here was the perfect cover story! Once she parked, she got the phone out again.

 _In case you're wondering what the hell you'd want from Cranbrook that you can't get in Creston, I was thinking something in the lines of Doctor Love. Can you guess what kind of shop it is?! :-)_

There, much better! Finally, she forced herself to get out of the car and get inside the café. It was a bit past lunch, so she ordered a couple of sandwiches and meat pastries then sat down and called Rosie, checked everything was fine in the home front.

By the time she opened her email, her heart was beating hard. She kept glancing about in order to prove to herself she was being silly. Stupid. Coward. Debasing herself on account of her reaction didn't really work, though. Deep down, she knew she had reasons to feel the way she did, but it still made her feel weak! She just… Her phone buzzed.

 _how are you feeling_

 _are you feeling ok_

 _I cant call right now but will be free in about 1 hour_

 _Ill call you_

Tears welled up to her eyes. His voice was all she longed to hear right now, strong and safe, but the text had been enough to lower her heart rate.

 _I'm fine, love_ , she texted back, sniffing back the tears. _I'll be looking forward to your call._

* * *

Creed had chatted to his woman for about twenty minutes, even though he should have spent less than ten minutes on the phone. In the previous month, he'd put together two hits one after the other but, once he'd realised something was wrong and the woman had admitted to having had a relapse, he had dropped the last job and had hurried to her side. True, it hadn't been the smartest move on his side, professionally speaking, but he hadn't given a damn about any of it. She had needed him.

Of course they'd ended up fighting for nearly a week. As much as he enjoyed angry sex, the woman was simply too stubborn to realise she should live quiet and safely _inside_ the house he had so carefully built with a world of safety precautions. But no! She had to wander about. At least she had promised to call him whenever she felt insecure, long before a panic attack could set in.

Finishing his shower, Creed breathed out tiredly. She had sounded so relieved to be talking to him that he figured she had really been feeling scared, even if she hadn't owned to it. Since he couldn't get to her any time soon – you can't just keep dropping your job no matter how annoying it may be – he'd simply helped her the only way he could.

Of course, that had meant he'd shot himself in the foot, as his target had managed to leave and Creed hadn't even noticed it. Not that it really mattered. Even if he had had to spend another two hours stalking the guy, waiting for him to be in a good spot to be aced, he still had plenty of time before his next job.

But it was so damned stupid! He really couldn't understand why she insisted in driving about unchaperoned! A number of things could happen, from the somewhat annoying to the really bad, and she simply didn't want to worry about it! Sure, there was merit in facing her fears in order to get over them, he'd give her that, but there were safer ways to do it.

Creed got out of the shower, in his hotel room, and checked his email. He'd packed three jobs into a ten-day period. The first one – freshly finished – had only taken eight hours, but he'd have to wait 36 hours for the second target to arrive to London. He'd be arriving by train and all he had to do was spot him and inject a heart-attack inducing cocktail from the back. It shouldn't be difficult to do amidst the crowded station. Then he'd get on a train himself to head up to Edinburgh and finish his third target.

They were all low paying jobs, but since his aim was simply to do as much as possible in as little time as possible, he wasn't about to complain. At least they were all straightforward deals and, for once, they could all be taken care of during the day, which meant he could phone Isabel and his baby girl when it was still day in BC.

He got in bed and checked the time. 11.15 pm, which meant it was 4.15pm in Creston. He called Isabel and frowned when it sounded busy. Weird. Perhaps she was still in Cranbrook and was talking to Rosie on the phone? Maybe. Guess it was better if she spent longer in the place rather than going there more often.

 _Call me asap_

Staring at the ceiling, a strange sense of annoyance krept up. The same thing had happened the month before, when he'd also left for a job. What was he doing there, all alone in a stupid hotel room? He wanted to go down the corridor and watch his daughter in her sleep. He wanted to breathe in and savor the aroma unique to his home: a mix of his scent, Isabel's and Victoria's. Hotel rooms were stuffy and smelled strongly of disinfectant if you were lucky. Most times, though, they smelled a lot like their previous guests. He had never liked it but… it had never really annoyed him as much as it did now.

It was all so empty and pointless. Why did he have to keep on doing these jobs, anyway? He used to enjoy killing, but these days it gave him no pleasure at all. All he could think of was that he'd rather be with his baby girl.

Only he couldn't bail out of the game. Not that he was much in the game, these days. Playing at low tier human hitmen didn't give him that much information. He wished he could go to the States and walk into a Satan club, only that was impossible because it was impossible for him to disguise… Hm… maybe he should get himself an image inducer. Yes, that was the thing to do! Find himself an image inducer and move his aliases to the States so he could rub shoulders with his old pals and listen in on what was going on. No, it might still be too dangerous to work there full time, but he could move one alias. He'd have to claim some sort of mutant power, too. Let's see… a bit of super strength was always handy. What else? Ha, low level empathy! He could mimic that using his heightened senses.

What was taking the woman so long? He looked at the mobile: it had been seven minutes already!

He scrolled a bit and smirked at their messages. He'd arrived in London near the evening, the day before, so he'd simply had an early dinner and gone to bed. With his phone. He'd have liked the chance of talking to his baby girl, but, the month before, it had become clear it wasn't a good idea.

The girl had reacted well enough to his voice, but then she'd gotten angry at the phone and hit the screen as she'd started wailing for 'pah-pah'. He pinned it on her heightened senses, as she probably couldn't understand how she could see and hear Pappa, but not smell him. Isabel had told her 'look, is Pappa', but she'd just screamed 'nah' till the phone was gone. It had really pissed him, since he'd counted on talking to his baby girl at least once a day while he was away. On the other hand, it made him realise he should be stimulating her hearing and smelling abilities more consistently. He'd read about the best methods of encouraging speech but, in hindsight, all those strategies were based on visual cues. His baby girl needed far more than that.

At least he'd had Isabel.

Creed had no idea how he would have put up with all those eight days in Germany, the month before, if it hadn't been for the phone. Everything had been so meaningless! A year ago, he'd been going on jobs with his unborn child always on his mind, but it hadn't felt like a chore. Well, except for some stupid jobs that had been dumb chores. Now, though… he couldn't help asking himself what the hell he was doing there even though he knew the damned reason all too well.

Oh, and he'd also discovered sexting, that previous month.

Not true: Isabel had started the sexting thing while she was still pregnant, but while then it had been exciting and edgy, now it was… a lifeline, of sorts. It helped him to keep focused and to put up with the dumb needs of his contractors. Who cared about their reasons to have someone aced and who the hell had the patience for petty 'poetic justice' deaths? People should learn to identify their real priorities and focus on them.

He started scrolling through their messages.

 _she is asleep :-)_

She always texted in Portuguese.

 _and now I'm in bed_

 _hmm I think I'm missing something nice, hot and hard next to me. any idea what that could be?_

To think he had once mocked sexting! Sure, there were much better things, but still… Creed scrolled down do the last texts of the previous night's session.

 _i close my eyes and i can almost feel your claws scratching my skin_

 _up my thighs_

 _im using my nails and my thighs are criss-crossed with red welts but its not the same_

 _i could draw blood and it would never be de same_

 _i want to feel your claws so badly_

 _are ya sure its only my claws_

 _Shut up_

 _you are a heartless tease victor creed_

 _phone me_

 _if i cant have your touch ill at least have your voice_

He liked to receive her messages more than writing them himself. What were words on a screen anyway? Even if he got a kick out of re-reading the exchange, he preferred listening to her breathless Portuguese accent – that language was starting to sound hot to his ears simply by association to phone sex. The very anticipation of hearing her moaning his name was enough to give him a hard on! And there was nothing more exciting and relaxing than to hear her beating heart.

"Beg fer my voice," he'd said the night before when he had indeed called her after the last text.

She had laughed. It was such an open sound. He sometimes found himself comparing her laugh with other women's he'd been privy with, especially Raven and Ruth, but Isabel's was always more honest, both trusting and trustworthy.

"No, no, no, my love. That is not proper phone etiquette: you didn't ask me what I'm doing. _Ask_ me."

To think he'd always got ticked when the women he was fucking had the gall to try and order him around! But the way her voice broke slightly, so candidly eager, as she made demands of him… damn if he didn't want to leave everything behind and get on the first plane back! Creed dropped the phone next to him and went over the phone talk that had followed the texting.

"Whatchya doin', ya devil?"

"I'm trying to come but you won't let me. Anything I do, anything I imagine, it's all so lame and pointless next to the reality. Make me come, you teasing demon!"

"You're the fuckin' tease, woman!"

She was, and he loved that about her.

"I've only just gotten here and ya're tryin' ta make me drop everythin' ta go back an' fuck yer brains out!"

"Love, if you were here, we'd have both our brains sprawled on the bed because I'd be fucking yours out like you can't imagine! I'd be riding you like a blasted show horse, squeezing your cock so hard, spurring you into your best performance ever!"

He tried to ignore the weary scents around him and focus on the memory of her voice.

"I'd be going over yer thighs with my claws," he had told her, "and ya'd be breakin' skin yerself everytime ya moved!"

She had moaned at that, and even now he licked his lips in the darkened room.

"I'd be buckin' up like a fuckin' wild mustang, not a tame show horse."

"Harder!"

"I'd be…"

The phone rang and he couldn't help the hungry grin.

"Whatch'ya doin', ya cock tease? Are you alone?"

If she was driving, she could pull over to a quiet place and…

"No," she said in a steady but weird voice that crashed him out of his lust. "I am waiting for de police."

What!

"I'm sorry, de Mounties, not de police. I almost hit a moose, but I swerved, got off de road, and… de important thing is dat I'm fine and de car is fine too. I think. Can be a bit beaten in de under side."

"What the hell is wrong with you!"

He couldn't leave her alone for five minutes! First it was panic attacks, now it was car accidents!

"How the hell did ya hit a moose!"

"First of all, I didn't hit de animal. I _swerved_."

"That's the worst, most stupid thing ya can do! When ya swerve t'avoid an animal, ya end up either goin' 'gainst other cars an' trucks, or against a tree, or into a ditch, a freakin' lake, or river, or… or down a cliff or somethin'! Ya can get yerself killed swervin' away from a deer or a moose, ya dumbass! Ya simply brake as hard as ya can an' brace yerself fer the collision!"

"Second," she hissed, " _you_ brought me to live in a place dat has mooses walking in de middle of de roads. _You_ brought me to live in a place dat, apparently, has more car accidents involving wild animals dan anything else. So how did I hit a moose? Because _you_ brought me to de country of mooses!"

Creed snarled and growled savagely, his claws sliding out. If she thought she was pinning her mistakes on him, she…

"And what de hell is wrong wid _you_ , Victor! De mountie in de phone explained dat is normal for deers and mooses to be in de road. If you know I drive to everywhere, why didn't you warn me? Why didn't you tell me how to react?"

He forgot his snarl for a moment, as he realised he should have remembered she had never lived in a place with so much large-sized wildlife inclined to hang out in the middle of the road, but…

"Ya should have known! Everyone does!"

"Maybe every Canadian person or every person dat lives in de middle of mountains and forests. De rest of de world – dat includes _me_ – has no idea. Thank you for de warning."

He growled. Why hadn't he thought of it, dammit!

"Stay where ya are," he spit to the phone. "I'll get on a plane and…"

"I am _not_ staying hours waiting for you here, Victor. _Dat_ is dangerous. More thirty minutes and de mounties arrive. Den dey help me wid de insurance and de… de… trucks dat transport cars."

"Tow cars," he growled, his blood burning.

"Damn you, man!" She grumbled in Portuguese. "Why were you so mean to me? I didn't even know those stupid animals existed! I phoned Rosie to…"

"Ya should have called ME first!" He roared.

"You are out of the country!" She shot back, still in Portuguese. "I do not want to be out here in the middle of the woods for longer than absolutely necessary, Victor, and calling you first was not going to help me get home faster."

"Dat's no excuse!"

"I phoned Rosie to warn her I'd be late and to ask her for the phone number of the police because I thought that was the fastest and _safest_ way to get out of here. Are you going to say I should have asked someone else for help? Are you?"

He shook his head. Yes, the police – or the Mounties, in this case – had been the best option, but…

"That's not the point, woman!"

"Do you know that Rosie was the one who said the stupid animal was called moose from my description? She was the one who told me that they're really dangerous, that hitting one head on is like hitting a brick wall! That people can actually _die_ in accidents involving mooses! I mean, I've heard of car accidents caused by hitting cats and dogs, but any death is usually because the person loses control of the car and goes off the road. It isn't because the animal is like a brick wall that can smash you inside the car! Why didn't you warn me about it?"

"Everyone knows about deer and moose!"

Every freaking everyone, dammit!

"I don't even know what a moose is in Portuguese!" Her voice dropped to a vicious hiss and he growled, exasperated. "How could I know about dem! I had never seen one, not even in films or photos or _anything_! It looks like a cross between a deer and a fucking mammoth! I was _scared to death_ , damn you, and the first thing you do is _yell_ at me because of something that was _not_ my fault!"

He paused, suddenly aware the woman was spiralling out of control and that he needed to calm her down, and growled lightly under his breath.

"Ya're gonna calm down…"

"STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!"

Spiralling all the way to hell indeed. He hadn't expected her to go from low hiss to shouting. If she was stranded in the middle of the road, in the middle of the woods, she needed to keep herself cool and aware of her surroundings to avoid worse things to happen. Maybe he should let her lose some steam first.

"You do not get to yell at me and call me stupid because of something I had no control over, and then act like I'm blowing things out of proportion, do you understand? I was perfectly calm till I had the terrible idea of calling you. It's _your_ fault, not mine!"

But he also needed to divert her away from this plunging spiral.

"Look, where exactly are ya? Can ya tell me that?"

She breathed out angrily and remained silent for a while as her harsh breathing softened somewhat.

"I'm almost in Yahk," she ended up saying with less anger, but still in Portuguese.

"Ok. Are you inside the car?"

"No, I'm outside. I…" She said it in English, this time, then breathed out tiredly before carrying on: "I was checking de condition of de car. I drove past some big bushes so are scratches on de paint, but I'm more worried if de under side part of de car hit rocks or branches dat are sticking from de ground and broke something."

"Ok, don't worry 'bout that. The car is goin' straight ta the garage. Just get inside an' lock the doors, ok? It's safer."

She didn't say anything, but he heard her get inside and lock up. Good. She remained silent, though.

"Feelin' better?"

"No," she shot immediately.

Damn the damned woman! If she didn't go about driving to Cranbrook or wherever, nothing of this would have happened. But since he didn't want her to start yelling again, he shut his yap. Flopping back onto his bed, cursing the turn of events, he heard her breathing become calmer and more natural. He closed his eyes and tried to relax himself. At least he'd hear if something happened and he'd be able to tell her what to do.

"Victor?"

He sat up immediately.

"What happened?"

"Uh… I didn't hear anything. I thought de call fell."

He shook his head. He had it on the tip of his tongue, to say that if she was going to kick up hell over anything he said, he might as well keep his mouth shut, but figured she would kick up hell if he said it and he didn't want to risk her getting so pissed she'd switch off the phone.

"No, the call didn't drop," he grumbled.

She was silent for a bit longer then commented it was getting darker.

"That's the worst time ta be drivin'," he told her. "Animals are the most active at sunrise an' sunset, and winter is a big peak time fer animals on the road, too."

She sighed.

"How you say atropelar?"

"Run over."

"I runover a fox one time," she said in a quiet voice. "It was night and all I saw was her eyes shining and den… Was like a bump in de road. Poor fox."

"Deer an' moose ain't no bumps in the road," he said. "Drivin' into a moose is like bein' run over by a train. Ya were damned lucky not ta get yerself hurt."

"Is cold," she said in a small voice. "I was afraid of ice in de road so I was driving very slow. I swerved because was de only way to not hit dat monster and because I saw I had enough open land to stop in safety. I wouldn't have swerved if was only trees. I'm not stupid."

He rolled his eyes and took a deep, but carefully silent, breath.

"I know ya ain't stupid, but people always try ta swerve away and always get inta worse trouble. I ain't sayin' it was _your_ case; it's just what dumb people usually do without even thinkin'."

Silence. He growled lightly.

"It was smart of ya ta be drivin' carefully," he added to sooth her pride.

After all, if she had analysed the outcome of both swerving and braking and had then chosen the least dangerous course of action, she was smarter than over two million people put together.

"I know ya're a good driver, Nesi."

Even if she became a suicidal daredevil every now and then.

"Are ya gonna keep goin' ta Cranbrook?"

"Do you want me to be a hostage to my fears?" She said icily in Portuguese.

He breathed out, because no, obviously that was not what he wanted. He only wanted her to…

"Then I'll have to keep going everywhere normally. It's not like I'm going to Cranbrook every day! Once every one or two months can hardly be called 'constantly', and you really can't berate me when something like this happens. You know it wasn't my fault. _Don't_ _you_?"

He needed to put an end to this topic.

"I was just worried 'bout yer safety," he grumbled.

"Ah," she said slowly in English. "Den you think I should call you stupid and say is all your fault dat something bad happened when I am worried about you?"

"Don't be a smart ass!" He growled audibly. "Ya know damn well what I meant."

"Here is a little pointer: if you're worried about someone, don't call dem stupid and don't say is all deir fault. Especially when isn't deir fault!"

Creed took a deep breath to hold back his temper. She was really pushing it, the dumb asshole. She knew perfectly well that…

"When you have to go back to your job?"

Huh? Was she trying to get rid of him?

"Ya're stayin' on the phone with me till ya're back in the house," but then he remembered it might take a while. "D'ya have enough battery?"

"I have de charger in my bag," she said. "I'm happy you're not working de rest of de day. I don't like be all alone in de forest like dis. Not wid big animals like moose around."

He shook his head.

"It ain't the moose that'll give ya trouble, not if ya ain't drivin'. Bears, wolves an' cougars are more dang…" What was he saying? He needed to reassure the woman, not frighten her. "Uh… I mean, fer as long as ya're safely locked in the car, there's absolutely nuthin' ya need ta worry 'bout. Nuthin' at all. No animals, no nuthin'."

She snorted dismissively.

"Not knowing what animals are dangerous isn't going to make me safer, love. Tell me: if I was outside de car, what should I worry about?"

Well, if she was serious about being informed over real dangers…

"The greatest dangers will always be while drivin'. Deer, moose an' bears are usually the most dangerous. Deer 'cause they're the most numerous an' they're big enough ta cause damage; moose 'cause they're massive enough ta wreck a car; an' bear 'cause they're big an' they…"

He interrupted himself when he remembered where she was.

"Are ya feelin' cold?"

"Hun? No, I mean, yes, my hands are a bit cold, but…"

"Crack the window open an' start the car. Crank up the heatin' system. Once the sun sets down, ya're gonna start feelin' the chill."

He waited while she did as told. It might be better if she knew why she was doing what.

"Now listen up: ya can easily kill yerself with carbon monoxide, so the trick is ta blast some heat fer ten minutes then switch off the car again, an' close the window, obviously. When the car starts gettin' too cold, ya blast it up again. That way ya save on the fuel and ya prevent killin' yerself."

It struck him then. He had never thought about it before because, honestly, he didn't need any of it. It didn't mean he didn't know the basics, though.

"Tomorrow, ya're gonna fix yerself a proper emergency kit that includes a winter sleepin' bag. Best way ta keep warm inside a car, the way I hear it."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	52. Creston: In Need of an Objective

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **52\. Creston: In Need of an Objective**

Creed was sick and tired of Edinburgh.

Not that the Scottish winter weather bothered him, but doing nothing except playing at tourists for five whole days had left his temper bordering a berserker rage. He avoided the touristy areas for all he was worth because the more people crowded around him, the more difficult it was to act civil.

His only escape valve was texting and chatting to Isabel, but the woman was too busy singing in the choir and frolicking about with her new _friends_.

He'd sent her over twenty messages already and she hadn't bothered to answer a single one. Growling and snarling, he threw the phone away from him. Cue in a few nightmares, and there she was running after him; but get her fears out of the picutre, and she didn't give a damn about him.

A buzz! He lept after the damned phone immediately.

 _I told you the choir practice was going to take two hours and that I wouldn't be on the phone. Why did you text me so much? Is everything ok?_

To hell with writing! He called her and growled all his frustration the moment she answered:

"No, it ain't ok! Would it kill ya ta answer me, damn ya!"

Silence. A tense breath.

"Answer me, woman!"

"Victor, I love you but you have your job, and that is doing what you have to do to keep Victoria physically safe." He growled at both her words and her choice of language – Portuguese – as he started pacing the room. "My job is meeting as many people as possible and have the most detailed network of people I possibly can. That means I can't be on the phone with you eight hours a day."

Bulshit!

"Yer job, is it? Yer fuckin' job is goin' about havin' fun while I'm here away from my baby girl doin' _real_ work! _Nasty_ work, not yer fun an' games."

"Then maybe you should change jobs," she said flippantly.

He nearly saw red at the gall of the woman!

"It's _my_ job that keeps you safe, you ungrateful ass! _My_ job!"

"What job? In the last three days, you don't do anything but text and call! Unless your job now only takes one hour a day, you're doing nothing all day long! I can't spend all day on the phone like you do!"

"I'm fuckin' waitin' fer the contracted time ta ace my target!" He roared.

"Well, I'm not waiting for anyone, Victor! I have to cook, clean, take care of our daughter and keep in touch with everyone in town. It doesn't take five minutes."

Oh, that was the real point of this all, wasn't it?

"Yeah, I've noticed it. Now that you have brand new friends, ya think ya don't need me no more, don't ya?"

"Pelo amor de Deus, homem! You want know what I think?" She finally switched into English. "Dat you want dat I think you lost your head for me."

Creed shook his head.

"I lost what? What the hell are you talking about, woman?"

"De way you constantly phone me makes anyone think dat you lost your head for me and dat you are so stupid in love, you can't live widout me for one hour."

"I… I'm NOT in love with you, ya dumbass!"

"Den stop acting like you are!"

"I am _NOT_ …"

"If you phone me every hour, Victor Creed, dat says you can't live widout hear my voice. Dat says you are desperate to be wid me, and dat you are dependent of my existance."

Wha…?

"But I'm not stupid, you hear? I know you don't love me, dat you never going to love me. _I know_! You can't trick me wid de constant calls, because I know dat if was not for Lilia Victoria, you could live happy widout talking wid me for a month! Dat all de phone sex is nothing about me because you can have all de womans you want to have sex. I know you don't need me, ok? So stop trying to make me believe dat suddenly you need me!"

Creed was still trying to get his bearings. Where had the woman got the idea he wanted to trick her into believing… that he needed her? He needed… Just what stupid logic was she…

"I know you don't depend on anyone," she switched back to Portuguese. "I know you'd rather die than depend on anyone for anything. So why this charade of calling me constantly? I mean, calling me twice a day to make sure we're safe and everything's ok is one thing, but acting like you depend on my voice? I really don't understand what your aim is with this charade! I'm not stupid to fall for it. I thought you knew that. Hell, I thought you didn't want me to think you have any serious or deep feelings for me!"

What charade? What was the dumb woman smoking to come up with that over-the-top scenario? He was dependent on her? Just what the hell!

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" He ended up blurting. "What's all this stupid story ya came up with?"

"What other reason would you have to call me constantly?" She said quietly. "I know you don't depend on me to live your life, so why? I could only think you wanted me convinced you can't live without me. But I can't for the life of me imagine why!"

"I was just checkin' on you, ya dumbass!" He growled. "Makin' sure nothing bad happened and ya didn't kill yerself drivin' into a moose or somethin'!"

There was a moment of silence.

"You listen to me, Victor Creed," she said viciously in Portuguese. "I came to Creston Valley because _you_ _told me_ this was a safe area. If this place is so dangerous that you must be constantly checking on me and Lilia, then you have better find us a safer community because I don't want to live in a place where you and I have to be constantly afraid for our daughter's well-being, do you understand? This is either a safe place to raise our daughter or we go somewhere else!"

What? Why was she constantly going apeshit over n…

"You know what? I'm through with this! I can't believe you brought us to live in a place that isn't safe enough for a child. It's completely irresponsible! You're arriving on Monday, right? We'll talk about better places we can move to then. Bye."

She hung up. She had just hung up on him. What the hell had just hap… The phone rang. It was Isabel.

"I just want to reinforce how very serious and fucking pissed off I am! Text me the name of whatever truly safe places there are in Canada so I can start researching before Monday. If you think I'm going to be sitting on…"

"SHUT UP!"

Miraculously, she did.

"What the hell are you going on and on about! Creston is perfectly safe fer Victoria. It's why I chose the damned place!"

"If it isn't safe enough for me, a grown woman, to go about on my own, it certainly isn't safe for a child."

"It's SAFE, dammit!"

"Then why are you calling me constantly to check if I'm ok? You say one thing, but your actions say something completely different, Victor. Make up your mind!"

She hung up again. What the hell had just happened?

Creed sat on the hotel bed and stared at the phone for a moment. He went over the exchange: he was constantly calling because he was needy… he was constantly calling because Creston wasn't safe enough to raise a child…

It ocurred to him this had started with him seething at her because she kept ignoring his messages and calls, and it had ended with her seething at… his neediness and irresponsibility. Because he was constantly calling. She couldn't understand what other reasons he might have to call her so often, so neediness and irresponsibility were the only things she could think of? Nothing else? Like…

For a moment, Victor Creed did ask himself why he called her constantly, only the answer was too obvious: he wanted to hear her voice. It was pleasant and soothing. He could almost close his eyes and imagine he was home, his baby girl a step away.

You can't live widout hear my voice, she had said. You are dependant of my existance. It wasn't true. He just… He could live just fine without talking to her for a whole day. For a whole week!

He'd go berserk, though. If he had to stay a whole week away without hearing her voice, without talking about his baby girl, without… But that did _not_ mean he was dependent on the woman. It didn't! He simply… Yes, that was it! It wasn't about the woman, it was about his new life. He didn't want to stay away for too long and, obviously, the only connection between his mercenary life and his new life was Isabel. That was really all there was to it. Nothing whatsoever to do with her personally.

He called her again but she didn't answer. He frowned. Had something happened? He called again. Nothing. Again. Again. Damn it! He'd talked to her not five minutes ago. What kind of problem could she have gotten into in so little time? Ag…

"Pelo amor de Deus!" She finally answered. "I was driving! What now?"

He forgot what he had meant to say as he realised the relief washing over him once he knew nothing bad had happened. Ok, so maybe she wasn't simply the link between his two lives. Maybe she…

"Victor, what is it?"

"Nuthin'," he blurted in a hollow voice, still trying to organise his head. "I mean, since ya ain't got enough of a brain ta understand it all fer yerself, I just wanted to explain that I only call ya so much 'cause ya're… ya know, my liaison agent, sort of. Ya're supposed ta keep me in the loop of what's happenin'. That's all."

"Well, if you haven't got enough of a brain to understand it all yourself," He growled a warning but the woman lowered her voice angrily. "People _cannot_ guess what you are thinking! _I_ cannot _guess_ what you are thinking. I am not a mutant wid de power to guess intentions, Victor! If you want dat I understand why you do something, you have to say it. You understand? And if you don't say nothing, den you can't complain dat I understood something different."

Yeah, because it was oh-so-difficult to put two and two together. But, hey, if she was so dumb she had to have every tiny little thing laid out for…

"And what de hell you called me? Leesson? What de hell is dat!"

He did not have the patience for this!

"I've been fuckin' stuck inside a small, smelly hotel room in the middle of a shitty tourist trap fer fuckin' _days_ , away from _my_ daughter! And I can't even chat with her 'cause she don't understand phones, an' the only other fuckin' person I can talk to is you. Can ya finally get it?"

He heard her breathe out long and forcefully.

"Ok. Now dat I finally know de problem, let's find a way to fix it," she said in a suddenly soft English that threw him off his anger. "Is not just dat you have to spend so many days away widout any contact wid your daughter. Is completely wrong."

Damn right it was wrong! Wrong and unnatural. He couldn't understand how parents could spend months away from their children. Sure, sometimes it might be because of earning enough money to keep them safe and healthy, but still… Weren't there better ways of doing it?

"When you come back on Monday," Isabel carried on, "we start teaching her how de phone is used. What you think?"

He shook his head.

"It's instinctive," he grumbled. "Ya can't teach her ta ignore her nose. If she identifies me first of all by scent an' rejects my image if the right scent ain't associated to it, then there's nuthin' ta do but wait fer her ta grow up."

"Yes, but…"

"No," he interrupted. "She relies on her nose an' that's a good thing. We can't teach her ta ignore what her senses are tellin' her."

"Yes, you're right. But is not just for you."

"Fair," he corrected with a grunt. "And I'm a big boy. I can handle it."

"What if I make videos of her and send dem to you? Dat would help?"

Creed shrugged and offered an unconvinced sure, then he switched off. The only thing that would help was being in Creston. For a moment, he even envied those dumb assholes working at the local brewery or the sawmill or… any job that kept him near his family, really! Something in Canada or the States. Even Florida was closer than the UK, and that was the farthest you could get within his preferred working ground. Only it wasn't safe, because… because…

The clock on the cell phone screen claimed it was 2.58 am, local time. Outside, it was dark and damp. Inside, it was damp and dark. Should have chosen a different hotel, huh?

He went up to the window and peeked to the empty street.

What was he doing? What exactly did he _have_ to do in order to keep his baby girl safe? First of all, keep tabs on his old friends, general pals and enemies to make sure they all thought Sabretooth was dead and gone. Right. Was this thing giving him that? No. These dumb jobs kept him within the world of hitmen, but not within the world of mutant mercenaries. That was the world he needed to tap into. On the other hand, whatever aliases he took up as a merc needed to have a minimim decent rep for him to… to what? Most of his connections were entrenched in the States and he was in the low life underground of Northern Europe.

He sighed and lay down on the bed.

This wouldn't do. He needed to organise his life… his work life. He needed to decide the best way to know what was happening in the criminal underground, especially the American one. To identify every possible threat to his baby's life, present and future. How?

For starters, he needed an image inducer so he could move one of his European aliases back to the States. How could he find one, though? He'd need something to distort his scent, too. Being in the States, he might come across Wolverine and he couldn't risk having his scent recognised by the runt. If he and the X-Men suspected Sabretooth to be alive, they'd kick up a hunt that would not end well. It was something he simply couldn't risk. But again, how?

Creed grabbed his tablet and headed to the dark net. He hesitated, then went to one of his forums and looked for thieves, checked what kind of goods were being requested and if image altering devices were at least common enough not to single a buyer out. Even if they were fairly common, though, it might be wise to have a different alias buying it.

Going through the hundreds of ads, it didn't take Creed long to realise there was a niche for people interested in getting their hands in specific de-powered mutants, and they were often meant to be kept alive. Limiting himself to murders was not smart, he realised. He needed to cast a wider net. Kidnappings, however, were risky as the kidnaped person could survive whatever ordeal had been planned and become a witness.

He looked for technological aids and discovered a sort of ad for expert technicians, specialised in stuff at the level of Iron Man and such others. Looking further, he came across a dealer of military grade material. Then there was a dealer of genetic material. Someone else was offering the chance to create clones at a discount. Really? Whoever was dumb enough to fall for that particular sale deserved to have their blood sucked dry by the fraudulent geneticists.

Creed went back to the expert technicians, then changed his mind. He started looking for electronic implements capable of disguising one's face and came across a paint that made the face invisible to cameras, but that wasn't what he was looking for. After that, he stumbled upon a virtual auction house which was auctioning off the remains of two human-sentinel hybrids created by the Zero Tolerance Operation, some years back. There was an ad for later auctions which included paintings, archaeological artifacts and, in five weeks, a thought scrambler that should protect one from both telepaths and empaths. Hm. Interesting. Chase Hall Auctions. He'd have to look into it.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	53. Creston: Sulking

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **53\. Creston: Sulking**

Victor was avoiding her, that much Isabel was sure. Or maybe he was just sulking.

It had started with the phone fight on Friday night. Isabel had thought the whole constant checking on her had been caused by the near accident with the moose, even if the barrage of texting and calling had started two full days after the incident. She had tried very hard to gently make him see he was going overboard, but that night after the choir practice, she had forgotten gentleness and simply aimed at keeping him off balance. He was not used to having his anger be met with a higher level of anger, after all, and, to really make sure he couldn't turn the tables back to his obsessiveness, she had kept going for things he'd rather die than do. Like being needy or dependent. Sure, he had blamed it on being homesick and she was even willing to believe it to a certain point, but if he weren't a controlling asshole, he'd have handled his homesickness very diferently.

She hoped that he'd understood that point once and for all: constant checking = needy and dependent. Of course she knew perfectly well he'd simply been controlling her, homesickness aside. However, let's be honest, a controlling person is nothing more than an insecure person. If he had got that idea inside his thick skull, maybe he'd control his controlling impulses. Pun intended.

He'd gone for the silent treatment immediately, which was not a surprise, but Isabel had acted like nothing was amiss, texting him how Lilia had woken up twice during the night, how she'd asked for him, what the two of them had had for lunch. She also sent photos and short videos, but they were sent alongside the texts. Two texts on Saturday, three on Sunday – he hadn't responded to a single one. Since he hadn't said it was ok for her to phone nor had he phoned himself, Isabel had kept to those few texts.

On Sunday night, she'd asked him point blank if he was expecting any delays to his return, as he had warned her that a job could always go wrong and become longer. That time, he'd answered.

 _if there are no flight delays ill arrive between 7 and 8 pm_

He'd arrived at 7.10.

Isabel had expected him to ignore her and focus on his baby girl, so it was no surprise when he did just that. She simply prepared his dinner and gave him time to get over his hurt feelings. If he had any type of brain in him, he'd realise trying to control her would always end in his control-freak feelings getting hurt. Through the meal, he chatted to the girl and played with her. When Isabel brought out a cake and sat down to eat a slice with him, he still ignored her. Have it your way, honey! But it annoyed her, naturally.

She let him put the child to bed after nursing her, and she headed to bed herself. She waited over an hour for him to join her. He still didn't say a word to her. Her original plan had been to let him sleep it off and confront the silent treatment in the morning, if he hadn't slept it off, but she found herself too aggravated to do so. Instead, she decided to give him his last chance to overcome his tantrum.

"I tried something," she said in English.

"Huh?"

How articulated he was!

"I got our photos from the wedding in Lisbon and showed dem to Lilia Victoria. In real life, if I point at myself and ask if I am Pappa, she laughs and says no. If I ask if is Mamma, she repeats Mamma. But when I do de same to de photos she always says it isn't Mamma and it isn't Pappa."

"I've told ya," he grumbled, not bothering to turn fully around to look at her, "she identifies us by scent. She associated Mamma and Pappa to our scents, not to our images."

"Yes, but dat doesn't mean dat everything we teach her through images she won't associate to de real thing?"

"What d'ya mean?"

Isabel sat up and looked at him. He was half twisted in bed and, thanks to her position, they could now sea each other's faces.

"I don't know how is for all objects, but lemons and oranges have very specific smells, for example. Dat collection of picture books you bought for her, has one book about fruit, right? Wid lemons and pineapples and stuff. What if she associates de names to de images but when she sees a real pineapple, she doesn't recognise dat is a pineapple because de smell is different?"

He frowned and sat up too.

"Some animals have slightly different scents," he said. "And some have very different scents. Same fer trees an' flowers an' stuff."

Really? She had had no idea the world was so full of different scents.

"If are so many smells, especially in de florest, you never feel like… an overdose of smells? Like a giant perfume shop, or something."

He snorted and shook his head.

"Perfumeries are a fuckin' nightmare," he said. "but it ain't 'cause o' the quantity o' smells. It's the quality that is the issue, and the intensity. A city or a big town ain't the nicest thing in the world either, especially with lots o' traffic, but again it ain't the quantity, it's the type o' smell. But out here in the woods? It's a million different scents, true, but they all blend together easily an' they don't overpower ya. Unless ya piss a skunk. I can't imagine how bad that would be!"

He grimaced at the thought and Isabel chuckled, her heart light at the idea he was indeed getting over his sulking.

"What about objects like… I don't know, cars and chairs and… things like that."

"The scent comes from the material it's made of. If ya have a toy made of wood and one made of plastic, they're going to smell very different. If it is something made of oak wood and something made of birch, the smell is going to be much more similar but it's still different. In a way, it's like colors. Ya can tell different shades of brown, right? So ya have different 'shades' of wood scents, too. An' then, obviously, there's the scent o' the people that use the object. If it's a car, the smell o' the exhaust fumes are gonna hide the scent o' the metal frame, but I can tell if a car runs on gas or diesel just from standing next to it."

"So," Isabel said slowly, "we have to focus on teaching her wid de real things and not wid books of images."

He nodded.

His upper body was naked, as usual. Isabel could feel the heat emanating from him. In a whim, she leaned towards him and breathed deeply in.

"I missed your smell," she said softly.

"My smell," he echoed with a surpised tone.

Looking up, she saw him frowning in slight suspicion.

"I don't have to have high senses to smell you," she smiled. "I can't identify details like you can, but you smell… I don't know de words to describe. Is like something warm and strong, heavy."

He just sat there, looking at her.

"I sometimes play and say dat you smell like streng and safety, but is…" She touched his arm, rubbed it gently. "Is a smell dat is strong and stable, constant. Is nice and comforting."

"Animal like?"

She frowned, not understanding, and he asked if the smell was somewhat animal-like. She nodded.

"Then the word is musky. It's a strong, heavy, animal-like scent. There's a whole range o' varieties o' muskiness, from the lustful t'the aggressive."

"Musky," she echoed, smiling wider. "You smell musky."

"What does Victoria smell like to you?"

She laughed and said all babies smelled the same, added she figured it was because of the breast milk they drank. Victor nodded with a very serious face and she hesitated anew.

"I know you have to worry about your jobs," he frowned in annoyance, "And I don't mean dat I want dat you neglect dat, but I really missed have you here wid me."

The frown softened but didn't go away completely. When she kissed his arm, she felt him tense up. For a moment, tiredness and frustration boiled inside her, but then his hand grabbed her chin and pulled her up for a kiss. Her nightie was torn to shreds five seconds later.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	54. Creston: Christmas Decision

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **54\. Creston: Christmas Decision**

Even though Victor's silent treatment had ended swiftly enough, he was not quite the same. Sometimes, Isabel thought he was still sulking, but she couldn't picture him sulking secretly for long. He'd have upgraded to a tantrum to make sure his hurt feelings wouldn't be ignored.

Today, for example, Isabel had gone shopping to the Creston Supermarket, rather than the smaller one in Canyon, and had taken much longer than she usually did. Had he called or texted her? Not even once! And he hadn't made the slightest comment when she'd returned. He'd been playing a game with Lilia, something involving oranges, lemons and apples, which Isabel was sure would end up unfit for human consumption, and he'd simply said 'everything's fine' when she'd asked how they were. In a way, it was almost unsettling.

"Isabel," Victor called out from the den. "I'm gonna take Victoria with me down ta the hardware store."

"Thanks," she said over the shoulder while she kneaded the dough for the Christmas sweets.

Lilia had just started walking on her own, no need to hold on to anything, and was constantly reaching for things she shouldn't reach and which were now suddenly within her range. Isabel wouldn't have been able to do much cooking had he gone by himself.

"Have fun," she called out as usual while he was closing the door.

She heard his car drive away and stopped the kneading, listened to the silence in the house.

"Guess he really did learn the lesson," she mumbled in Portuguese.

She hadn't realised how much he had been in the habit of controlling her till now. Before, he always had to know where she was and with whom. He'd ask her if she was planning on staying out for long. Sometimes he'd add he was thinking about going somehere after her return, or that he wanted to take the child for a walk in the woods but wanted to be back by the time she returned. However, not once had he not asked where she was going to meet whom and for how long. Occasionally, he'd grumble about how long she'd been away. If she stayed away longer than she'd predicted, he'd call her immediately. Now, though, sudden freedom! It was the suddenness that she found unsettling, she supposed. Or maybe it was the fact she had become used to living with the stress of constant control checks and now had to rediscover a more relaxed attitude.

Breaking out on a low hummed melody, Isabel smiled. It was so good not having to worry about his frown of displeasure. Whether she called him out on it or not, it had always annoyed her, especially as she never knew when that frown would become a complaint or a recrimination that she'd have to spend time and energy refuting. She had always kept an appropriate answer ready in case he called or texted, always wondering when it would come. Now… she was free.

Isabel kept on kneading till the dough was perfect, the silence of the house heavy all around her despite the melody she insisted in humming. As the oil became hot and she started dropping in the stretched dough, a pang made her sniff. She shook her head and focused on the job at hands, but, as the tray accumulated the traditional sweets that Lena strangely called angel wings, the sinking feeling worsened.

She had made that recipe with her grandmother since she was a little girl. Sure, she hadn't learnt how to knead till she was a teenager, but she had known the recipe by heart since she was twelve. This winter, she'd made a quarter of the recipe. She put the tray on the table and got a second one.

There were five recipes of Christmas sweets that had always been used by her family every single year. It would not feel like Christmas if any one of them failed. However, unless she wanted to drop most of it into the rubbish bin, she'd have to go over to her neighbour Leslie and offer her some. She'd have to offer Lena and Rosie some too. And Angie. There was simply no way Victor and her would be able to eat everything.

Once the dough was all fried, Isabel looked at the two trays. Only a quarter of the recipe! A stupid tear trickled down her face. The full recipes of all five sweets had never yielded any waste. There were so many people – mostly family – coming in and out, that by the 27th at the latest, everything had been eaten.

Mostly family.

She could almost smell the mix of brown sugar and cinnamon that she and her cousins were responsible for coating the sweets with. Her mother would take her to Grandma Maria's early in the afternoon of the 24th where she'd meet her cousins, more or less her age. They'd fool around in the yard outside while the grownups did the first part of the cooking, then they'd be called in to do their part. Her uncles would set the extra table as Grandma Lilia and a couple of grown-up cousins arrived for the Christmas Eve supper. There was always so much noise: chatting, screaming, laughing, singing, telling offs… It wouldn't be Christmas Eve if at least one of the youngest children didn't mess up badly enough for a serious telling off and a few tears. Once, Isabel and her cousin Susana had broken a window after having been warned – twice! – to mind the ball they had been playing with. That had landed them almost with no presents the next morning.

Next to her memories, Christmas was now a silently cold, empty day.

Victor's car! Isabel quickly brushed off the tears, but then she remembered his nose and washed her hands and face. He should have parked the car in the garage by then. She got the pumpkin dough she'd left to rise and got ready to fry the round dreams. In three or four years, Lilia would be helping with coating the sweets with sugar and cinnamon but it wouldn't be the same thing, would it? She recalled the cheerful elbowing and fooling around as she and her cousins fulfilled their responsibility. Her poor baby girl would never know that kind of joy.

No. No, no, no! To hell with the problems and the difficulties. And as for Victor…

Isabel interrupted her line of thought as the door to the laundry room, which connected the house to the garage, opened and her baby girl called out 'Mamma!', walking in all by herself.

"Still busy?" Victor asked.

She nodded and smiled at Lilia's attempt to open the door to the pantry. Victor distracted her with a 'Chair! Where's a chair?' and she giggled, headed eagerly to the kitchen table and its chairs.

"You want help put de sugar and cinnamon?"

He didn't answer, but came closer and picked one of the angel wings.

"Dey aren't so good widout de sugar," she warned.

She expertly coated the wing he'd picked up and gave it back to him, breaking a little piece to give Lilia, who was trying to climb onto a chair.

"Brown sugar and cinnamon: dat is de flavour of Christmas."

He grinned and started eating it thoughtfully, but excused himself from helping because Victoria would want to get her hands on the mix too and would turn herself and half the kitchen into Christmas sweets. Isabel laughed at the truth of his words, but the grin died quickly.

"Something wrong?"

She shook her head, especially because… oh, to hell with it!

"Victor, I… I was thinking dat we should give Lilia Victoria a little broder."

The man froze in front of her and Isabel's heart nearly broke at the prospect of failure.

"Is important!" But she turned away from him and busied herself coating the warm angel wings. "Children are happier if dey have broders. Is important because dey learn to share wid oders, dey learn to deal wid oders. I mean, because dey have to learn how to deal wid disagreements, and word fights and… and real fights, too. De older child learns to be responsible and to adjust her behaviour to different ages. Dey learn… dey learn how to deal wid different needs! De younger child feels more motivated to learn because dey want play wid de older. Dey learn… Dey learn so much, Victor! Is really important dat Lilia has a little broder."

"Yeah, sure!" He shrugged, picking up another sweet. "If ya say it's important, then it's important. Ya're the expert on kids, right?"

That had been surprisingly easy. She laughed quietly and glanced at him, he was still focusing on the sweet in his hand, as if it didn't mean anything to him whether he had a second child or not. She needed to make sure.

"So… no more condoms?"

He nodded with a frown and took another bite. Her heart beating wildly, she decided she needed to get a more definite reaction from the man. Something that made it impossible for him to go back on this shrugged ok.

She waited till he had finished swallowing the whole thing then told him his lips looked very Christmasy and kissed him. He surprised her with a passionate response, his free hand pulling her demandigly close. Of course it was all very short lived, since Lilia fussed angrily till they broke apart. His eyes were burning with lust though.

"Promise me," she licked her lips. "Promise me we don't stop until we have de little broder for Victoria."

He got up with a grin and stole a quick kiss before Lilia could fuss much more.

"I've promised way harder things, woman. Don't worry 'cause I ain't changin' my mind. If Victoria needs a sibling, then ya can bet I'm givin' her one."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	55. Creston: Boxing Day Play Date

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **55\. Creston: Boxing Day Play Date**

Creed didn't enjoy Christmas for several reasons. At the top of those reasons was hypocrisy. He simply couldn't put up with all the fake cheer and good will. Sure, it had always annoyed him to see people happy, but faking happiness just because it's the season to do so, that really ticked him off. And let's face it: Christmas was nothing more than a marketing strategy these days since the religious feeling was only present on the name of the holiday. Besides, what did presents have to do with the supposed king of the poor and oppressed anyway, right?

He kind of put up with Isabel's version of the thing: a Nativity and lots of food. He might have scoffed at even the Nativity scene, but since Isabel was religious and he was supposedly a Catholic, he'd accepted it without comments. She had, after all, said she didn't need a Christmas tree and he was grateful enough for that break. Moreover, Isabel had surprised him with the idea of opening the presents only on the 6th of January, like the Spanish did.

"You are suposed to be Spanish, aren't you?" She had said. "So it makes perfect sense. You know, my grandparents always said Baby Jesus was the one who brought the presents as a prize for good behaviour, not Father Christmas, and I always preferred that idea. But, if we think about it, the three Wise Men were the ones who brought the presents when Christ was born. What do you say?"

He'd said yes, obviously. The further away he was from the Christmas madness, the better he'd felt.

So they'd spent Christmas Eve relaxedly at the table, eating some disgusting boiled codfish and cabbage drowned in olive oil followed by delicious cakes, biscuits and an assortment of sweets. Then they'd religiously gone to the Christmas Mass, which was held at 10pm rather than at midnight. Once they were back at the house, Creed had gone for a spin in the woods while Isabel sank into one hour of prayer for the soul of every person she had met in her other life.

Christmas Day had been similar: the only relaxing thing about it had been the meals, which this time had gratefully been comprised of roasted lamb and turkey. Since Isabel had spent most of the 24th cooking and preparing the meats in marinates, there hadn't been much for her to do in the kitchen. Unfortunately, the woman was involved in that choir thing.

They had scheduled a caroling outing in the afternoon and Creed had been really pissed about having to tag along to show off how supporting a husband he was and all that. It wasn't as if the thing hadn't been planned in advance but, once the day arrived, he really didn't want to put up with the Christmas-y hell. Thankfully, Isabel had given him a way out and had told everyone he'd stayed behind watching over Victoria, who had a light fever. Teething, she supposed, but they wouldn't want their baby girl catching cold.

Boxing Day was to be another story. It was apparently unknown in Portugal and Isabel had been surprised it was a big sales day. Despite Creed's fears she'd want to join the shopping spree, she'd suggested enjoying the partly sunny day on a family hike instead. That had been great!

And then there was the evening.

It turned out that Lena Moreno was a workaholic and that her friends had decided to force her to close up shop in the evening of Boxing Day. She hadn't been happy, supposedly, but she'd yielded. Oh, and it was her birthday too, though he wasn't sure if that was on the 26th, could have been a couple of days before. He hadn't paid that much attention to Isabel's way too detailed report.

Why did that affect Victor Creed? Because Isabel had been invited to join the birthday party and it was supposed to be a lady's night only. Naturally, Isabel had accepted without even talking to him first. When would she ever say no to a party, right? He had been given two options: stay home with Victoria or join the kicked out husbands in a poker game, with the caveat that they'd have to overview the kids' slumber party before the card game could be started.

To be honest, Creed had been adamant about staying in his own house all the way to the very day of the thing, but as Isabel babbled about how thrilled she was that the other women were interested in furthering their budding relationship – something the invitation clearly proved – he'd become aware he must make connections with the male counterparts of those women. Isabel might be the networking expert, but she couldn't cover the male section of the town as efficiently as he could – nor did he want her to!

He'd phoned Don Sherman, who was still the only person in town he had enjoyed a couple of beers with. Fortunately, Amber had given Isabel his number when the party had first been set so the two men could organise the poker night with no need of a female go-between.

"The kids are to have a play date starting at 5pm," the guy had said. "Do you know where Jacob Clemens's house is?"

Of couse he knew! Isabel had found out both the Harper's and the Clemens's addresses, as well as their parents', who were locals.

"Great! Bring your kid's food, an extra set of clothings in case there's a diaper accident and that's it. No, wait! You also have to bring a two-four."

The case of twenty-four beers was the price for induction to the poker game group, apparently.

That day, the place was packed. Seven kids: three babies and four toddlers. Three of those were Clemens's, the other four had arrived late in the afternoon so the group could play a bit, have dinner and be read into sleep. It was fundamental that all of those kids were fast asleep by the time the game started, after all.

While he hadn't been looking forward to it, Creed ended up enjoying the experience. Clemens was into sci-fi stuff, whether as novels or films, which didn't mean anything to Creed, but his brother-in-law was into all sorts of books, with a particular interest in educational stuff in general, which was probably typical for a primary school teacher. Creed had decided he might as well pump the guy for information on the topic while giving Victoria the chance to get used to the crowd from his lap. She had been to the Clemens' house a couple of times with her Mamma for play dates, but she'd only played with two kids then, not six.

Harper had been very pleased with his interest and had shown him what he'd brought to entertain the children: half a dozen books from his kids' collection of music books. Music book was a misnomer, really. The books were normal stories but they brought a CD with background music to be played while the book was read.

"Music helps the development of the brain," he'd informed Creed. "Literacy and numeracy especially, not to mention motor skills, dealing with emotions and developing their concentration. I often start my classes with specific music pieces to help the children calm down and focus on the upcoming tasks. Works brilliantly!"

"How exactly does that help wi' the readin' an' the numbers?"

Harper had nearly beamed at the chance to indoctrinate someone.

The other father was Don Sherman, who apparently wasn't interested in impromptu parenting sermons and had preferred to sit on the floor to help the toddlers build lego towers while Clemens was trying to convince his 15-month-old that walking was so much more fun than crawling. She didn't seem to be buying into it, as she kept going down on her knees and stretching for a xylophone.

Once Harper had finished singing the glories of early musical education, Creed had finally taken Victoria to interact with the other kids, since she was getting curious by now.

He knew from Isabel that Victoria preferred fooling around with the two-year-old Douglas's toys rather than interact with the 15-month-old Alexis and now he knew why: the little girl was happy sitting in front of a toy or play station and had a penchant for noisy pianos and xylophones. Victoria was restless and kept getting to her feet even if she had to use the toddlers to pull herself up before grabbing their blocks and ruining their building efforts. Don's two-year-old Willow and Clemens's four-year-old Marianne were not happy with it, but Douglas's cousin, the three year old Colin, had quickly decided Victoria was a baby dinosaur and the two boys had started playing a sort of tag game with her. Creed couldn't help grin as he recognised his baby's predator instinct to go after anyone running away from her.

She had started walking by herself a few weeks ago, but she was still less than steady and preferred hanging on to stuff to go faster, especially as she hadn't yet learnt to run. Nevertheless, her fastest was far below the level of the two older boys. They'd run off to areas without furniture and she would try and run after them only to fall on her bum or on her hands. But it was thrilling to see her! Sometimes, the boys let her catch up with them and, sometimes, the younger one was too slow when he came over to poke her and get her attention. At those times, she tried to grab and bite them, so she soon became the baby-eating dinosaur. While Creed could tell she didn't like the pokes, she was having lots of fun running after the boys with a wide toothy grin.

"She's a damn early walker," Sherman commented. "She's eleven, right? Damn early."

"My Colin went nearly straight from sitting to walking," Harper commented with a grin. "Yours is going from cruising to running!"

It filled Creed with an unexpected sense of pride.

"Early means nothing," Clemens grumbled. "Alexis was sitting before she was four months old and started saying her first words early, too. But when it comes to walking… Both Douglas and Marianne were walking by the time they were thirteen!"

He once more made her stand up, which obviously annoyed the child who had been happily banging the carpet with the xylophone mallet.

"Some kids don't start walking till they're eighteen," Harper reminded him. "It's perfectly normal! Especially because she uses a wide range of words and she has fine motor skills in terms of object handling. Don't fret over it!"

It had been at this point that it had hit Creed: he had to be in good terms with the two parents, Clemens and Harper, because Victoria enjoyed playing with their boys. The way she was trying to run after them, it was obvious to Creed she needed to spend time doing this kind of thing.

"Take her hiking," Creed had offered in an attempt to be fully accepted by the daddy group. "Victoria started cruising when she was eight because we take her hiking regularly."

Sherman laughed.

"The only sport he does is lifting beers while watching hockey. He works real hard on his Molson muscle, eh?"

Creed smirked. The guy's potbelly was well-developed indeed.

"Hiking really is a good idea," Harper pointed out with a friendly sneer. "For Alexis _and_ for yo…!"

A cry from Douglas got their attention. Victoria had clamped down on his hand and her eight front teeth meant that was not a fun experience for the boy. Creed and Clemens were on them immediately.

"If ya tease her, she's gonna bite," he told the kid as he got his girl away, "an' she's too little t' understand it ain't right."

The boy might not be old enough to understand complex reasonings, but since the idea that poking leads to biting and pain isn't exactly complex… It suddenly occurred to him the other father might take offense. Unsure about how to handle the situation, he decided to simply ignore the man and take Victoria back to the toys piled in the middle of the room.

Behind him, Jacob Clemens scolded his son lightly for pestering the poor little girl. Harland Harper followed suit and told his three-year-old Colin to sit down instead of running about.

"You're getting all sweaty!"

Unfortunately, Victoria had been enjoying the teasing game and, the moment Creed sat her down, she got back to her feet and laughed delightedly after the two boys. Creed sat her back down and she fussed and twisted till he let go. In the meantime, the boys had sat down, but Colin clearly welcomed her return. This time, he tried to coax her into destroying a quickly erected towers of blocks.

"Guess she's their personal bulldozer, now," Clemens snickered.

Creed's eyes slid over to the lazy Alexis. Fine motor skills while handling objects… Creed had given up checking baby milestones online when Isabel had dismissed them as unnecessary and maybe even harmful. Parents obsessing over what a baby should be doing by what month caused nothing but stress to the very child, she'd told him sternly. No expectations! The thing was to let her experience as much as possible and then give her space to hit the milestones by herself without anyone fretting over timetables.

There had been sense to that approach, as he did prefer to enjoy his time with her rather than focus on a sort of baby training schedule, constantly checking what was next. So he had set his books and websites aside and thrown out the expected milestone calendar he'd put together for the first three years of her life. These days, once his baby girl showed inclination to do something, he encouraged her to do it, but never before she showed interest in it herself. It had worked fine for walking and talking!

Still, looking at Alexis inserting those colourful doughtnuts into their correct slots in the frame of the xylophone and then hitting them with toddler precision, he realised Victoria preferred to slam and throw things carelessly. Was Clemens's girl early on that or… or was his baby late?

A stampede got the men's attention and both Clemens and Harper told off their boys, who were now openly teasing the delighted Victoria into biting them and then getting away before she could chomp on them.

"They better not cry when she clamps down on their fingers," Creed shrugged.

However, roughhousing would make falling asleep difficult, so he got up and picked up his daughter. He knew exactly what quieted her: listening to a quiet heart rate while being cuddled. Isabel often told her stories in a whisper, too, but Creed had experimented a bit and he knew for a fact that the sound of a heart beating at a relaxed pace was enough to calm her excitement. For as long as the excitement inducing object was gone, obviously.

"What d'ya say we start their dinner an' move on ta story time. If this carries on, Victoria won't close her eyes 'fore midnight."

By the time the four men had managed to feed all the kids and lay them to sleep – which had required Creed to wrap his daughter in a baby blanket infused with Isabel's and Creed's scent – the kitchen had been prepared for the poker game.

By nine pm, the whole group was ready to sit down and play, two baby monitors well visible on the table amidst the beer bottles – one for the babies' bedroom, the other for the toddlers' bedroom. It wouldn't do for a baby to wake up and get the toddlers up. Besides the four parents, there was Nelson Holman, the mountie who had knocked up the annoying Lyn chick and was getting a breather from watching over his two-month-old boy; his brother-in-law Lawson, a stupid kid that had supposedly been kicked out of the military; Colin Ellis, a lumberjack who was part of the local Search And Rescue group alongside Nelson and Lawson; and Benny, an old geezer. A grand total of eight players.

"Gentlemen," the host said formally, "please remember that the green chips are worth a nickel and that the red chips are worth a dime. Let's begin."

Becka Harper, the youngest kid at seven months old, started crying before the cards had even been shuffled.

"Dammit! I'm out," Harper grumbled. "Could you warm up the bottle for me, Jacob? I'm going to get her before she wakes up the others."

"Bring her down," Sherman called out to him. "You can play while she feeds."

"For as long as there's no diaper changing anywhere near me," Lawson grimaced in disgust. "It makes beer puke smell nice by comparison."

Colin Ellis laughed that he shouldn't have come because the last time Colin had tagged along, little Becka had had two changed diapers on the very game table.

"She's a mean shitting machine," he'd slapped the kid's shoulder.

"Oh, I don't know," Nelson grinned smugly. "Gabriel is on his way to surpass her. He does nothing but eat, burp and get changed, and Lawson is right: it stinks _so_ bad!"

This was definitely a level of poker Creed had never played.

Sitting between Harper and Sherman, he had even found himself holding the guy's girl while he rinsed the bottle. Unlike his Victoria, little Becka didn't complain about being held by a stranger… and she hadn't been breastfed for quite some time too, he realised. Her baby scent had none of the sweetness he associated with breastmilk.

The game was slow and unfocused. Colin Ellis, who was nearly as tall as Creed, vented about their most recent rescue mission and dissed on people who embark on winter mountain hikes without the tiniest idea of what they're doing. The other ones asked for details and joined the dissing of tourists in general. Just to go against the flow, Lawson, the dumb kid, praised dumb tourist chicks. Dumb must attract dumb, Creed guessed. Then Harper commented on a particular father he knew who, even though he was a local, was just as dumb. His own kid – who was in Harper's class – had better common sense.

Colin knew the person in question: the guy had got lost in Goat Mountain a couple of years back, hadn't he? Benny, the old guy, shook his head mumbling about people getting themselves in trouble because they ignore the warning signs. Speaking of which, there were some punks grafitting a park in Creston…

Creed switched off. He could have cleaned the table if he'd wanted, but winning was obviously not the aim of these people and he had to follow their lead if he wanted to fit in. It occurred to him he should be keeping tabs on the people mentioned for later checking. He wasn't in the mood for the effort, though. It didn't sound like anyone his daughter would get in touch with any time soon, anyway. He did notice, however, that he guys were all on first name basis and he decided he should follow suit.

When Becka finally fell asleep and Harland Harper took her back to the room, it was Victoria's turn to wake up crying. It was still far from ten pm and the game was supposed to carry on till after eleven. He tried to sooth her back to sleep, but she wanted to cling to him so he took her downstairs for a distraction. Unfortunately, Creed himself needed a distraction. As he sat down, he got his phone out.

No messages.

It pissed him. It really did! He'd been holding back ever since he'd returned from Scotland, a few weeks back. The idea that he looked needy and dependent to Isabel's eyes had confused him but he'd be damned if he'd give the woman any chance to go about claiming such stupidities. Since when did checking her movements was an indication of neediness! The only need involved was making sure she wasn't throwing herself into danger and being informed of his daughter's activities.

Victoria tried to reach for his cards and he folded, got a second beer, pushed his chair away from the table. Then she asked about Mamma. She's having fun away from us, was what he had on the tip of his tongue. She prefers to be out with her so-called friends than to spend time with you and me.

"Não há," he answered in a hollow tone, using the Portuguese expression that meant 'there isn't'.

"Mamma!" She insisted.

"She's having Mummy time," Don Sherman chuckled, getting both Creed and his baby's attention. "Mummies need to have time alone with their friends, or they'll lose their patience over everything you do."

What? Was he fucking implying that Isabel didn't have enough patience for handling his own daughter? No! No, he couldn't blow up and mess up his main objective: get along with Clemens and Harper for his baby's sake. But like hell was he going to let the asshole diss his woman like she was a shitty mother!

"What the hell are ya babblin' about?" He managed to tone down his rage into clenched teeth. "Isabel does not need, or want!, ta be away from her baby!"

That caused a pause in the conversations around the table and Sherman hesitated.

"I just meant that her Mummy is recharging her batteries."

Jacob Clemens chuckled.

"Amen to that! A woman that feels stuck inside a house with kids is more dangerous than a grisly bear," Creed bit back a growl. "I could barely wait for Loreen to go back to work after Alexis was born. She snapped at everything I did and didn't do! It was a blasting nightmare!"

Harper nodded and added that Doris was the same. Whenever he went hunting with his friends, he was sure to come back home to some recrimination because she was the one dealing with two babies while he went off to have fun.

"She's right," Benny grumbled acidly. "Don't think I don't know ya goes off nearly every weekend and ya don't even think 'bout what she needs, eh?"

"Benny, Benny," Nelson Holman cut in, "we've talked about this. You know Harland doesn't go hunting every single weekend, and you know he doesn't lock Doris inside the house nor does he want to. Take it easy."

"Yeah. I'm not the one dropping the kids at their grandparents to spend every single Saturday afternoon at the cinema." Harper shook his head a bit bitterly. "If she can have her weekly mummy time, I can have my daddy time hunting whenever I want, too."

"And it's at times like this I'm glad I have no kids," Colin laughed. "Say, since you've mentioned hunting, have you guys bought any big game permits for the winter season?"

The game resumed its pace but Creed was still biting his tongue. His woman did not need any Mummy time to keep her from blowing up. All she needed was him and her baby, nobody else. Annoyed, he got up and took Victoria back to bed.

He sat in the dark with her for over half an hour till the child fell asleep again, nibbling on his finger. It gave him time to think things over.

Isabel had been sleep deprived when he'd returned to Portugal, after hunting his past in Canada, and she had indeed been snappy and aggressive. She had had good reasons for it, though. Once she had had the chance to sleep more, she…

No. No, who was he kidding? Isabel had blown up every time she'd wanted to go out and socialise and he'd tried to stop her. Not that it happened very often, but… Rosie had started babysitting Victoria precisely because Isabel wanted to have the freedom to go wherever she wanted. He mulled over that idea. The freedom to go wherever she wanted. Away from him and Victoria, his mind quipped. No. No, she'd never want to stay away from her baby! But away from him… No, he told himself. Her gaze of adoration was proof she didn't want to stay away from him, either. He had learnt to keep that in mind to avoid going berserk when he'd been in Scotland. Her ocasional texts had also helped that strategy work, but it was not easy. A thought had him addding another proof she didn't want to be away from him: she loved reporting to him her discoveries after chatting to people in town and she couldn't very well dig around with him shadowing her.

He went over Harland Harper's dry remark. So his wife went off by herself every week but nagged him when he went hunting, huh? He and Isabel got on so much better than that! She had never once recriminated him from going anywhere, neither when he was overseeing the house construction, nor when he went on jobs, and not even when he took off to blow some steam. And he did not recriminate her when she went…

Isabel did not go anywhere regularly to blow steam, it suddenly occurred to him. But, no, of course not! Her preferred method for blowing steam was playing the piano or the guitar. She didn't need to go anywhere, unlike Doris Harper.

Holding his precious baby girl in the darkened room, Creed felt calm and at peace. It was easier to think about Isabel's independent streak without resenting it. If she had been like the Harper woman, heading off to the cinema every Saturday like clockwork, that would have simply meant he'd spend more time with his Victoria. But Isabel wasn't into cinema, she was into partying. So what? If she went partying with her girl friends, he'd have some alone time with his daughter. That wasn't so bad, was it? And then Isabel would come back, smiling adoringly at him and eager to tell him all about her discoveries.

With something akin to regret, Creed lay down his girl on the bed and breathed in her scent. Time to join the game again. As he returned to the table, though, he recognised the emptiness that had gnawed him while he'd been in the UK.

"Took her long to fall asleep, eh?" Harper asked as he approached.

Jacob Clemens had been dealing the cards and he'd gone back and dealt him a hand too. Creed sat down and picked them up but the dark emptiness sucked his mood to dangerous levels of irritation. He wanted to hear Isabel's voice. It always sounded so alive, even when she was annoyed. He'd rather fight with her on the phone than not hear her voice at all.

He picked up the phone and called her. A couple of glances his way irritated him, but he still needed to be accepted by the group. Victoria would need to meet kids she got on with regularly, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to make sure she had as many available candidates as possible.

"Isabel wanted ta know if Victoria had trouble fallin' asleep," he lied.

She had been worried that might happen, true, but she hadn't asked him to say anything.

It took her long enough to answer, though. For a moment, he wondered if she had switched off the sound of the phone so he couldn't…

"Olá!"

Her voice sounded so happy that he could picture her smile, her adoring gaze. The hollowness faded slowly. Since he was in public, though, he didn't let himself slide into a relaxed grin.

"Whatchya doin'?"

She laughed that she was catching cold outside in order to have some privacy. Once more, he held back the chuckle that was in his throat and kept his facial expression neutral.

"Is everything ok with Lilia?" She carried on in Portuguese. "And you? Having fun with the guys?"

"Victoria woke up but she's back to sleep," he shrugged, avoiding the question. "No problems."

"Great! I'm going back inside before I freeze. I _love_ you!"

Her voice vanished and the gloominess returned, even if her last sentence echoed in his…

"... ta Hell wi'this, Holman!"

Creed held back a snarl at the old man who'd pushed back his chair and was glaring murderously straight at him.

"Take it easy, Benn…"

"Fuck off," the guy got up with an equally murderous glare at Harper. Crazed.

What the hell was going on?

"You gonna say he forgot where she was, eh? That he don't know what she's doin'? Ya gonna defend 'im like ya defend Miles, are ya?"

Creed's impulse was to grab the guy and have him explain himself before cracking his neck. That would have worked in his former life just fine, but here… He resorted to clenching his teeth and keeping his claws in check. Harland Harper had been seriously ticked by that reference to Miles, whoever the guy was, and if he hadn't done anything beyond a deep breath and clenching his fists, Creed figured he should follow suit. His priority was being accepted by Harper and Clemens, not the crazy old man, he reminded himself.

"Ya don't fool me none, ya ruffian," he hissed back at Creed who still couldn't fathom what his beef was. "Ya hurt that poor woman, and I'm blowin' yer brains off. Got it?"

Creed shook his head, too confused for words. Hurt what poor woman?

"I'll lend you my shotgun," Colin said with a sigh as he got up. "Just call me before you do anything, ok? Come on, Benny, let's go outside and calm down. You don't want your heart short-circuiting again."

Clemens was shaking his head in clear annoyance, but Harper was pale with anger, teeth clenched and fists closed tight. Nelson Holman followed Colin and the old man outside. Once they closed the backdoor, Creed blew as tamely as he could:

"What the fuck just happened here?"

"His daughter was killed by an abusive ex," Sherman said sternly.

"And what the hell does that gotta do with me?"

"Ignore him!" Harper threw his cards onto the table roughly and grabbed a bottle of beer. "When he's acting crazy, anything you say is proof you're a wife-beater. I don't know why Colin insists in bringing him along!"

"Acting crazy?" Don slammed his cards on the table and leaned towards Harper. "Constantly phoning a woman asking her where she is and what she's doing is one of the biggest red flags in a relationship!"

Clemens was nodding his head in clear agreement and Creed felt suddenly cold. Had his efforts to get along with these assholes just gone to hell because of a stupid phone conversation? If Don Sherman had thrown an accusation straight at him, he could have torn him apart; but the guy was grilling Harper instead.

"I've seen how those stories develop first hand, Harper." Sherman got up. "A guy starts keeping tabs on a woman, calling her two and three times a night just to ask what she's doing, and she should get the hell away from him. Move two provinces away if need be. First red flag, run. It may be too late when it gets to the second."

Creed couldn't keep it in. He couldn't!

"Ya better stuff the preachin', Sherman. It's none o' nobody's business how many times I call my woman!"

" _Your_ _woman_?" Clemens voice came out in an awkward laugh and Creed remembered something Isabel had said, back in Portugal, that people would think she was crazy if she ever said she belonged to him. Fuck it all to hell!

"Sí, mi mujer," he burst. "Mujer means the two things in Spanish, dammit, wife _and_ woman. Spanish is my first language and I sometimes mix it up in English. Ya got a problem wi'that?"

"See?" Harper turned at Sherman. "The guy's really abusive, eh? Calling her his woman and calling her to tell her her daughter is asleep. Worst abuse in the world!"

Sherman shook his head and glanced at Creed. There was a moment of hesitation, but the guy had really taken issue with the situation. Creed had to make a decision: did he want to salvage whatever connection they had? He was the only other mutant he knew of in town and, as Isabel had explained to him, he and his wife were pivotal to the fast development of their circle of acquaintances. His daughter's future stand in that shithole of a town depended on the largest circle of acquaintances he and Isabel could develop.

"When you know where someone is and what she is doing, why on earth do you ask her what she's doing?" He told Harper. "I'll tell you why: because there's a history of controlling behaviour. And that is the start of an abusive relationship, such as the one that ended in the death of Benny's daughter, as well as many other women."

He had to defuse this. He had to… What could he say? He remembered Isabel telling him his constant calls were the hallmark of a needy, dependent man. He'd told her he had simply been checking on her to make sure she was safe, but she had…

"Or maybe it's the sign of a man who is simply interested in what his wife does!" Harper countered.

Yeah, he could play along that…

"No, no," Lawson scoffed. "Don's right. I had two girlfriends like that, always asking where I'd been. It ain't interest in anything: it's controlling. I dumped them immediately!"

No, he needed something that couldn't be misinterpreted.

"Shut up, Lawson!" Harper snapped. "If a guy doesn't care about what his wife is doing, he's a jerk; if he cares enough to worry and ask her about it, he's an abusive control-freak!"

Nelson Holman entered the kitchen when he remembered it.

"It's proper phone etiquette!"

That got everyone's attention.

"It's a fuckin' joke, that's all!" He explained. "I didn't ask her what she was doin' the other week an' she was all 'that's not proper phone etiquette'. I ask her what she's doin' an' she says somethin' stupid like she's blinkin' or she's breathin' an' then she asks what I'm doin' and I say I'm talkin' on the phone. It's a _joke_!"

"Never heard that one," Lawson snorted. "Both my girls called it _love_. I call it fucking control issues, s'what I call it."

Wha… Was that moron for real?

"Lawson, you were double-dating them," Holman shook his head. "In their case, I call it wising up."

That had Clemens laughing, but Sherman and Harper were still riled up. Creed didn't feel much differently.

"Shall we play another round while we wait for Colin? He's taking Benny home."

Despite the tension, everyone sat down as if willing to pretend the matter was buried. It wasn't though. Fortunately, the problem seemed to be between Don Sherman and Harland Harper. Creed recalled Benny had said the guy protected someone from abusive accusations… what name had he mentioned?

Nelson Holman shuffled the cards through thick silence and Lawson sighed they needed more beer. When everyone had their cards, Sherman breathed out forcefully.

"I've seen the end result of a few abusive relationships," he said to the cards with a rough voice, "and Benny lost his only child. He had no idea of that private joke of yours and, based on what he heard, I don't blame him for flipping. Not with his history. That's all."

"Then ya can set 'im ta straights next time ya sees 'im," Creed grumbled.

Harper snorted.

"Forget it, Kredall: you're in his black list. There's no getting out of it. Not in a million years!"

Creed looked at Harper, acutely aware he was far from his objective. All the men used their first names in between them, Harper had just used his surname. A wave of frustration had his claws itching to slide out and break the place apart.

Only Victoria liked playing with Clemens's and Harper's kids.

"The name's Victor," he grunted.

No one commented since Lawson threw ten red chips into the pot and challenged the group to follow suit.

While Creed usually hung out with murderers and fighters, he had spent enough time in Satan Club to know how to help difuse the tension before short tempers decided to get into fights and be banned from entering the place. You either provoked the one causing waves into leaving, or you changed topics.

"So, Harland, ya hunt regularly, huh?"

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	56. Creston: Losses

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **56\. Creston: Losses**

Creed was lying sleeplessly on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Next to him, Isabel was lying equally awake, only she had her back turned to him and was nearly on the edge of the wide bed, as further away from him as she could.

He had known it was going to happen. They both had. But Victoria had survived, so… guess they had both expected there might have been a second miracle, huh?

Nine weeks.

It sounded so short – nine weeks. Two months.

At least the miscarriage hadn't been the drama-hell he'd pictured. Isabel had simply started bleeding. She hadn't even complained of pain! Nothing more than mild cramping, she'd said. The whole thing had turned out to be a period with a bit heavier than normal bleeding. No drama, no danger.

It kind of felt wrong. How could losing a baby be something so simple? I mean, sure, killing a person could be as simple as breaking a neck, but still…

He was spending the days out of the house with Victoria at Isabel's request. Or perhaps demand might be a better word. It didn't make much sense to him, but Isabel had been adamant. She did not want the girl smelling all that blood. He'd tried to explain it was ok. She was already used to Mamma's period, after all. Menstrual blood smells very differently from normal blood, and even though the bleeding caused by the miscarriage had been different – something in between the two – it wasn't really that much so. Besides, the worst part had been the first three days. Now, five days from the start of miscarriage, it really just smelled like a normal period.

Isabel hadn't said a word. She hadn't needed to: her icy gaze had been more than enough. So he was still spending the growing March days tripsing through the woods with the girl.

It bothered him, though.

Isabel had not cried, hadn't even tried to hide moisty eyes because her eyes had remained abdsolutely dry since the very beginning. While she had always searched for comfort in his arms, now it was as if she couldn't stand his touch. Her back straight and her head high, lips irritably tight. I have no patience, she dropped in exasperated Portuguese at anything that annoyed her.

He'd held back his own irritation for five days before blowing up himself, that same night, and accused her of being a block of ice.

"I am losing a baby!" She had snapped in Portuguese. "What did you expect?"

Well, he had lost his unborn child, too! Not that he had said it out loud.

"Do you think I feel ok? Do you? It's not about pain, Victor, it's about… God, I have no patience for this! If you can't even bother to imagine how it feels like to have your body _slowly_ get rid of a baby, try to at least shut up while I deal with the whole thing, ok? I don't annoy you with how you deal with your job, do I? So show me the same respect and don't pester me when I'm doing mine."

He hadn't directed another word at her.

It still bothered him.

On the other hand, he was able to recognise she was right. He couldn't even begin to imagine what it's like to slowly lose a baby. To feel your body bleeding it away. That the process was still… He frowned. Angie had explained Isabel had miscarried – Past Tense – but, in reality, the miscarriage was still on-going for the woman. It would be on-going until the bleeding was fully over, he realised.

Ok. It made sense. The iciness was her way of controlling what was happening. Once the bleeding was over and the miscarriage was all done with, then she'd relax and go back to…

Wait! Might she change her mind and not want to try for another baby?

That idea alarmed him. He wanted another kid! He wouldn't even mind if it turned out to be a boy. He hadn't known anything about kids back then, but he had since realised that no son of his and Isabel would ever become a Graydon Creed. He understood that so well now!

Creed glanced over at Isabel. Her breathing clearly showed she was awake, but she had told him to leave her be not half an hour ago.

He hesitated, but the worry was too strong.

"Isabel?"

A terse sigh.

"Yes?"

"D'ya still wanna try fer another kid?"

"Of course I do!" She snapped in angry Portuguese. "What kind of question is that!"

"Nuthin'," he shrugged, relieved. "Just wonderin'."

"Lilia _needs_ to have a sibling," she insisted. "And I am not going to stop until she has one. You promised!"

"Yeah, I know. I was just wonderin' if ya'd changed yer mind, that's all."

"No, I did not!"

"Ok."

He breathed better now. He'd have another kid. He really wanted that. His second chance! This time, he'd be there for his child from the birth. No more running away. No more abandoning either his cubs or his woman. He felt so pleased, he decided it needed a celebration.

"I'm takin' Victoria to the Kootenay Lake, tomorrow," he told Isabel. "There's a lot of Canadian geese around an' mallards, too. Not ta mention the grebes are startin' ta come in. She's gonna love it!"

Isabel didn't answer.

"I'll probably have lunch there, so she can spend the whole day foolin' round the birds, gettin' all the scents right."

She still didn't say anything. But that was ok. He understood what she was still going through. Only he wanted to celebrate and that had to include Isabel. She was the one who was going to give him his second kid, after all. And through who knows how many miscarriages!

"D'ya want me ta bring ya somethin' when we get back?"

Silence. He'd bring her something.

In a sudden impulse, he turned in bed and rubbed her arm. She was still suffering through her miscarriage, after all, and he wanted to make her feel better.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

The shout had him retreating instinctively, but then resentment set in. Here he was, trying to make her feel better and the ungrateful… Scent of tears. Ok.

Creed lay down on his side of the bed again and stood perfectly still. It occurred to him she wanted him out of the house to spare him waterworks. That's why she wanted distance: it was easier to hold back the tears. She could have said so earlier!

"I'll bring ya a CD," he decided. "Good night."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	57. Creston: I'm not a frail!

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **57\. CRESTON: I'M NOT A FRAIL**

Isabel had expected to handle the miscarriage better than she had. She had known it was going to happen, she had known! But deep down she had actually expected the miracle to repeat itself.

Teach her to presume her prayers would always be answered with a yes.

There had been a moment when she'd even wondered if she should insist on more pregnancies that were doomed from the start. But no. No. She'd count each miscarriage as a sacrifice and would pile them until she was worthy of a second miracle.

Next time, though, next time she wouldn't curl up into a weeping ball every single day. She wouldn't sing the most forlorn fado songs she knew to the heartless walls. As if they cared! Sure, she had handled the housekeeping as if nothing was amiss… sort of. But the truth was that she had kept both her baby girl and Victor as far away as possible and that was not fair. Not for them, and not for her, either.

Five days after she'd stopped bleeding, she was trying hard to be her usual self, but she still felt much too down. Which was why she had insisted they resumed going out for dinner at Lena's. She would have liked to resume her sex life – she wanted nothing but for Victor to give her orgasm after orgasm until there was nothing but the here and now, pleasure and comfort. Peace and safety. Angie, however, had told her to avoid any type of penetration for two weeks in the very least. And Victor's fake birthday was in two days! She had so wanted to do something sexy for a celebration.

Nevertheless, she managed to smile at Lena and even joke that she was out of the cave as the woman hugged her and claimed it was so good to see her again. Lena personally took them to their table, which was odd. Even stranger was the fact there were a couple of tables yet to be cleared.

"Is everything ok?" Isabel asked, noticing Franny was nowhere to be seen.

"Krystal got a high fever and Frances took her to hospital. Usually, Rosie would help but she had arranged to babysit Willow and it wouldn't be right to make her cancel it."

Victor greeted someone and Isabel noticed Amber and Don Sherman. Must be having a romantic dinner, she supposed. Amber got up and came over to hug Isabel, too. It annoyed her, two hugs in such quick succession, both reminding her of her loss, but it was also comforting. So very comforting. Until both Amber and Don suggested sitting at their table.

"We've only just ordered," Amber explained. "And I've got news you might like."

Victor didn't offer resistance so Isabel was trapped. If they hadn't brought Lilia with them, Isabel could have countered with a romantic dinner all of their own, but as it was…

Victor had never confirmed what Don Sherman's mutant powers were, but she knew deep down he was a telepath. Any other power, Victor would have told her about it, but he knew she'd freak out at telepathy so he'd kept mum about it. It had to be. So far, Isabel had never had to spend more than a couple of minutes near him, but to spend an entire meal? It made her skin crawl. But what could she do? She definitely couldn't be rude to the guy, not if she counted his wife as a good friend and if Victor enjoyed spending time with the man.

To hide the nervousness, Isabel got the baby chair herself. It was usually Fran – or another waitress – who did it, but Lena being so short on hands… And it was a busy night on top of it! Isabel put little Lilia in the chair, but she started fussing and Victor picked her up again. Right.

Isabel looked around as she sat down. Lena was running from table to table, so she didn't come over immediately to take their order. There was another waitress – a teenager by the name of Amber Rhodes, nicknamed Ambie – but she was a bit on the slow side, even if she was very nice. The two tables were still there with the plates and… That was it!

"I'm going to give her a hand," Isabel said, relieved at the idea.

Amber said something, but Isabel was too busy to even want to register what it had been. She picked up the two plates and felt Victor grab her arm.

"What d'ya think ya're doin'?" He muttered through clenched teeth. "Ya should sit down and relax, not run yerself tired doin' somethin' that ain't yer job!"

"I'm not a weakling frail," she shot back in Portuguese. "I am perfectly recovered and I can very well help Lena if that is what I want to do. You have no right to tell me what to do, remember?"

Had they been at home, there would have been a scene for sure, but out in public he had no option but to swallow it down.

"Isabel," Lena said alarmed when she saw her with the plates in her hands, "what…!"

"Stop it!" Isabel said in the lowest voice possible. "You need an extra pair of hands and I used to help in a taberna when I was younger. Now, do what you have to do while I help wid de tables. I don't want hear anoder word about it!"

The woman stood there, clearly shocked, as Isabel marched into the kitchen. Yes, she was aware she'd been too comandeering. Gess what? She didn't care. Her aim was to stay away from Don Sherman as much as possible and there was no one going to force her back before she was ready.

"Good night," she announced herself to the people working inside. "I'm helping Lena clear de tables. Where you want dat I put dis?"

A young woman hurried to get the plates and take them to the sink. Ok. Good.

"I need a clot wid disinfectant to clean de tables," she told that same young woman. "Can you give me something?"

"A cloth? Uh… Here, you can use this."

Isabel left with a thank you and met Lena coming in. Almost ready to start a scandal, she nevertheless let the woman drag her back into the kitchen.

"This isn't right and I…"

"No, Lena!" She interrupted. "Try understand one thing: I want help and I am going help, OK? You can't stop me so don't try. I clean de tables and you and Ambie do de rest. OK?"

Lena was not happy and for a moment Isabel feared an actual confrontation.

"I am not going to sit, Lena," she said, her voice shivering stupidely on the word 'sit'.

"Ok," Isabel didn't wait for the rest and hugged the woman tight with a whispered 'thank you'.

For a few minutes, she felt so relieved that she smiled blissfully at every patron. She cleared and washed every table top, then greeted patrons with empty plates to take them away, asking if everything was ok and if they were enjoying themselves. Then she started keeping track of drinks and offering to bring more water or whatever they were drinking.

It couldn't last forever, though.

"Isabel, your food is going to the table," Lena told her in a stiff whisper as she was going into the kitchen. "Victor ordered for you, so… Thank you for your help, but you really need to sit down and eat your dinner, now."

True. But at least she'd kept away for some time! And now… now she felt stronger and she'd be able to face him, the telepath.

"Lena should definitely hire you," Amber laughed when she came back.

Isabel laughed too, hoping it didn't sound as fake as it felt, and explained she'd worked in a café when she was younger.

"I guess I felt like remembering de old times."

Although it would never be like the old times, not unless she could interrupt the waitressing to sing random fado songs. Not unless some of the patrons made jokes, sometimes loudly dirty, sometimes bordering on insults in between them. Not unless they roughly called her up to sing this and that. Not unless…

Isabel tried to focus on the steak. Of course, Victor had ordered a steak for her. In his mind, physically recovery was forever tied to eating lots of meat. The more rare the better!

"Anyway, as I was saying, we've started a club!" Amber touched her soulder to get her attention. "Loreen misses the choir but she simply doesn't have the time to join it again, so we've started a music club! Do you want to join?"

Once more too self-aware – or too aware of Don Sherman – Isabel had trouble thinking of something to say.

"Who's we?"

Victor to the rescue! Thank God and Our Good Lady.

"Me, Loreen, Doris and Angie. Well, it's not really just a music club. We'll have cinema screenings too… and theatre plays. Musicals, to be exact. Marianne loves all the Disney princesses, so it might be fun to do Disney princess sketches for her and for Willow, who's on her way to be a die hard fan, too. What do you say, Isabel?"

Again, she was having trouble to think up something to say. She couldn't even feel anything in particular about the news! All she could think of was Don Sherman, the telepath, sitting across the table – well, diagonally across the table – and looking at her with his piercing blue eyes.

"When will ya meet? And where."

Victor again. Isabel felt a sudden urge to cry and did her best to breathe it out surreptitiously.

"Oh, only at the weekends. Probably Saturday afternoon."

"I thought Doris went to the cinema every Saturday," he carried on the distraction.

Don Sherman laughed at that and Isabel froze and withered inside.

"That's way exagerated," he said.

No. No! Isabel could not allow this kind of thing to take over her. She was stronger than this!

"She goes out about once a month," Amber told Victor. "And it's not even every month! I know, Harland says it's all the time, but it really isn't."

She was going to take a deep breath, then look up and face that damned telepath. Show him she wasn't the slightest bit afraid of him.

"So, his hunting weekends are…?"

Ready? Look up and face him.

"Even less common."

On the count of three.

"It's Miles Hilkins who arranges the outings."

One.

"He and Harland used to be real close, from what I hear."

Two.

"But these days they only get together for hunting or the occasional drink at the Track Bar."

Three!

"And, from what I hear, the outings are more about drinking than hunting."

Isabel clenched her teeth and forced herself to look up. She couldn't force herself to look to the side, though, so all she did was look up at Victor. And realised Lilia was playing dead in his lap. Why? She had stopped playing dead at the patrons in the restaurant months ago! What danger was she feeling to make her resume… Could she sense the danger the telepath posed? No, don't be silly! It was just… just…

"Yes," Amber said, "Doris is always complaining about it. She says she hates it when he goes out hunting with Miles and Porter because he always comes back a bit wasted. Got caught driving drunk last time!"

She couldn't do it.

"He wasn't exactly dr…"

Isabel got up with a forced excuse me and headed to the yard.

"Isabel, are yo…" Amber called out but she just hurried outside.

You're not going to cry, she warned herself tersely. You're going to woman up and g…

"What's wrong?"

Victor! Nevertheless, Isabel hugged herself and took a step away from him. If he touched her now, she might just lose whatever control she still had over herself and burst into tears.

"I can't do this," she admitted in Portuguese. "How can you sit so relaxedly next to that motherfucking telepath and… even Lilia was frozen in f…" Oh, God! "Where's my baby? You've left her with him!?"

Panic boiling in her veins, she almost rushed back in to get her baby to safety, but Victor grabbed her by the shoulders.

"She was reacting to you!"

What?

"Anyone can see how tense ya are, an' she's reactin' instinctively to it."

Isabel blinked desperately, trying to keep the tears at bay.

"Don ain't no threat."

How could he say that!

"He can go inside my head any time he wants!" She hissed as low as she could. "He keeps looking at me with those blue eyes and…"

"Stop it!" God, why couldn't he see it? "Don's eyes are brown!"

Wha… No! No, they were…

"And he has barely looked yer way twice. A telepath doesn't have ta go inside yer head ta feel yer emotions, if they're strong enough. He can obviously feel ya're scared ta hell of him and he's doin' his best ta keep out of yer personal space."

Wait… Wait!

"He knows what I feel without going inside my head?!"

Victor hesitated.

"I'm takin' ya back t'the house."

"No!" Hell, no! "I'm not a shitty fucked up coward, Victor Creed! I am not going to run away from that motherfucker!"

"Inês," he said through clenched teeth, but if he thought using her real name would work as a magical secret weapon, he had another thing coming. "I've delt wi' telepaths lots an' lots of… Ya know what, I got a better idea. Ya ain't got no defenses 'gainst telepaths, right? But I know how ta deal with 'em. So, we're goin' home and I'm gonna teach ya how ta protect yerself from bein' read by a telepath. Both in terms o' mind readin' and emotion readin'. Then we can have another dinner together so ya can show him and everyone else how ya ain't got no reason ta be afraid 'cause ya knows how ta handle 'im. What d'ya say?"

There were ways to protect oneself from a telepath?

"How?"

"How what?"

As if it weren't obvious!

"How can you stop a telepath?"

"Ya basically imagine somethin' like… like a… a wall or somethin', an' the telepath has ta find a way through that wall 'fore he can get access t'yer mind. Better yet, they can't get access without ya feelin' it."

Was it really that easy or was he simply sweet-talking her into leaving cowardly?

"If it were that easy," she muttered under her breath, "I'd have been able to stop the other one."

"The logic is easy," he insisted, "but it takes a bit o' practice. There's this thing called visualisation. Ya visualise mind barriers, an' the better ya are at visualisin', the stronger the barriers are. The problem is that if ya lose focus – an' that is relatively easy ta happen – then the telepath ain't gotta do nuthin' 'cause no focus means a wide open mind."

Focus. She could focus.

"It's the same thing with yer emotions," he carried on. "Ya can keep 'em really tight inside ya and all a telepath – or an empath – can do is tell that ya're blockin' 'em."

"Empatt?"

"Empath. Those don't read minds, only emotions."

Oh, OK. Right.

"What d'ya say? I'll tell 'em ya've got a headache an' the restaurant is too noisy."

She scoffed lightly. Could he come up with a lamest excuse?

"Just say I'm not fully recovered yet," she told him.

Better to admit to that real weakness – and an understandable one at that – than to use moronic lies.

"But arrange a dinner for next week, ok?"

She'd have all the mind barriers by then.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	58. Creston: Desideria

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **58\. Creston: Desideria**

Creed was excited with work again! For over a year, he'd been stuck with small time jobs that both bored and annoyed him, especially as he'd rather be with his baby girl. Now, though!

He entered the pub with a thrill as he hadn't felt in… hell, way too long!

"A pint o' lager!" He called as he sat at the bar.

There weren't many people in yet.

"Cheers," he offered relaxedly as the barman gave him his drink.

Learning Brit manners at pubs hadn't taken him long, and it had its perks. It was easier to chat up a guy and get some information, for example. Tonight, though, he wasn't after intel.

"Norton?"

He swung around on the stool and grinned. The guy in front of him was tall and well-built, an icily determined blue gaze.

"Ya're the one havin' mutts tracked, huh?"

The guy nodded and sat on the stool next to Creed, who swung to the front.

"Hey, give this guy a pint o' somethin', will ya?"

Creed's eyes focused on the crooked mirror covering the wall. Despite the distortion, it clearly showed Creed's brand new green eyes and weathered features. Was this what Mystique felt like? Maybe not. She'd been changing her appearance for so many decades, it might not feel like anything much anymore. But for him! And then the giddiness of his own cleverness. He was sure anyone who got his hands on image inducers used them to create prettier, younger versions of themselves. He'd done the opposite. Smart, right? It was a pity he couldn't boast about it to no one, though. Back in the day, he could always show off how smart he'd been on this or that job to the guys at Satan Club. He really missed that. He grinned at the thought. He'd simply have to stop by the old haunt, wouldn't he?

"So, what's yer real game?"

"A two-legged bitch," the other one grumbled.

Creed barely held back a chuckle. The irony! He'd started a new alias as an exotic hunter with the specific aim of steering away from his hitman career, and his second job landed him a hit. He didn't laugh, though.

"There's a lot o' variety in that particular species. Ya're gonna hav'ta be a bit more specific."

* * *

Desideria. That was the name of the big player Creed had stumbled upon while looking for the image inducer he was now a proud owner of. Well, his Norton alias, at any rate. His excuse was that he was a poacher and he needed something to disguise illegal kills as legal. If the officers are seeing a deer on the back of the truck that fits the license instead of the actual bear… smart, right?

From what he'd gathered, Desideria dealt in theft and occasional kidnapping, not killing. He had immediately decided to try and start working for them, but that required someone to introduce him to the employers. That's why he was working with Patterson.

The asshole was on Desideria's pay-roll and had been hired to retrieve something a woman had in her possession, but she'd been smart and run off to the Australian outback. She was a local, and she'd hidden her tracks carefully. All Patterson knew was that she was living in the middle of nowhere, travelling from place to place. He needed someone to hunt her down, and there was a deadline with an urgent stamp on it.

Creed had answered his request for a hunter and been told to do a task to check his skills – hunt down a specific mutt in London. Not paid. Eager to make a connection, he'd gone for it. And now here he was, in the sweltering heat of the Australian outback, holding back the bile.

Creed clenched his teeth and closed his fists tight when the woman screamed again, the desperate shriek dying into sobs and pleading.

The 'thing' to be recovered was the unborn child in her womb. It sickened him! And to think he'd stood by as Mr Sinister opened up old, young and anyone in between. He'd seen the guy perform deadly C-sections on live women. He might not have enjoyed it, but it hadn't…

"Ya gotta make this connection," he grumbled under his breath. Being part of a big time player would help him learn of what happened in the underworld. And knowing what was going on…

He swallowed down as his stomach turned at another shrieked pleading. Why didn't Patterson just kill the damned woman and get it over with? She looked nothing like his woman, sounded nothing like her… and yet he couldn't help but imagine her in a similar danger. His own baby this time. The idea that someone could…

But Creed had to be in the loop. It was the only way of preventing bad things from coming knocking on his door. Looking for missing people, for example, might let him know if someone was still looking for Irbis, or even Maria Sofia da Silva. He might think no one was looking for his woman's previous aliases, but you never know. He was old enough, experienced enough, to know that you never know.

The scent of blood hit him as the woman's screams became wild.

Fuck, no!

He turned and reached for the woman, broke her neck in a swift movement.

"What the hell do you think you're doing! She's supposed ta witness the goods being recovered."

Creed looked up at the man and considered killing him. Just for having the gall of opening up the woman alive. But he could still salvage the mess. Maybe.

"I'm a hunter, not a butcher or a torturer," he spit. "Maybe ya should have asked that 'stead o' makin' me stalk a mutt ta test my skills. I'd have told ya straight on I wasn't yer best choice."

Patterson scoffed a "yeah, I can see that" and carried on hacking the woman open.

Even though she was dead, her body was still warm enough to advertise its pregnancy and Creed had to choke down the retching that came over him.

"Ya're going soft," he raged at himself as he walked a few steps away from the butchering, trying to get himself in a position where the wind blew away as much of the bloody stench as possible. He did not want to smell the amniotic fluid. There were too many gut-punching memories associated to _that_ smell. And it was no softness that had come over him, he growled at that voice in his head. It was fear.

He looked at the far off horizon, dry and reddish, and admitted to himself he felt squeamish with fear. It wasn't for the vic that he felt any type of sorrow or pity, no. It was because what had happened to her could happen to _his_ woman. To his baby girl. Damn, did that twist his insides!

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to clear his head. Instead, he thought of the baby Isabel had lost. Not baby, embryo. He should really think of it as embryo. A thing marked to die until it got to the end of the first trimester and hope was finally allowed.

It had been a month since the miscarriage but… he just couldn't stop thinking about it. At least it was a simple thing. One to two weeks of bleeding and… The stench of the woman's dead baby came closer.

"I'm done. Let's get going."

"Yeah. An' next time," he grumbled, "make sure ya say ya want a hunt and a live butcherin'. Don't fuckin' trick people inta jobs they ain't interested in."

Patterson shrugged and conditioned the bab… no, the embryo. He conditioned the thing in a metal case.

"You got a few more miscarriages ahead 'fore Isabel can take a pregnancy ta the end," he once more reminded himself. "It's gonna cut way too much if ya don't stop thinkin' of 'em as babies."

But he was exhausted.

By the time they got to their hotel, it was a bit past dinner time and, while Patterson headed off to grab something to eat and drop the recovered goods, Creed hit the room and had a shower. When he got out of the bathroom, he simply couldn't help himself. He sat on the bed and called Isabel. It must be about five or six in the morning, back in Creston, but he simply had to hear her voice and make sure she was safe. He'd left Creston two weeks ago – finding lost women in the Australian Outback wasn't something doable in two days, after all – and by now it almost hurt physically not have his woman and cub's scents around him, even if he had still called her once every three or four days.

"Veetohr?"

Her sleepy Portuguese accent brought actual tears of relief to his eyes and he looked at the ceiling, made an effort to sound casual.

"Hey, what're ya doin'?"

"I'm trying to keep at least one eye open but I think I'm losing the battle," she mumbled in Portuguese, which made his smile wider. "What time is it?"

"Dinner time," he let slip. "But I ain't hungry."

"Hun?"

Damn. He never told her anything about his jobs as basic precaution, not even where they happened, and here he was letting her in on what timezone he was. It was all none of her business, anyway.

"Just wanted ta make sure everything's ok," he said. "Are all the windows an' doors locked? Are all the alarms on?"

"Yes," she grumbled. "Why are you calling so late?"

"And have ya been sleepin' ok? No nightmares, no nuthin'?"

"No," she droned, "I think of your voice and no nightmare dares come near me."

He could hear her turning in bed, making herself more comfortable. He got the feeling she might slip back into slumber despite being on the phone, despite her smiling voice. He just wanted to hear her and make sure… an idea struck him.

"Nesi, Nesi listen ta me!"

"What's wrong?" He could hear her waking up with sudden worry.

"Nuthin', listen: lie on yer back an' put the phone on yer chest. I wanna hear yer heartbeat."

There was a moment of confused silence, then a far off ok and, finally, a distant heart beat. It was calm and steady and so, so comforting.

It faded, though.

"Can you hear it well?"

"Yeah. I mean, not very well, but I can hear it alright. Put it back an' go back ta sleep, ok?" And in a sudden impulse: "Dream o' me."

She chuckled.

"I'll try to."

The distant sound of her heartbeat returned and Creed flopped backwards on the bed. It was hard and lumpy, not to mention it stank. He so wanted to hold his sweet Nesi in his arms and tell her she was ok, that he'd never let anyone hurt her. Breathe in her sweet scent… although it wouldn't be that mind-blowing sweetness he loved till she had had another child again. He so wanted to live that experience again!

Steps. Creed switched off the phone and started getting dressed. Soon, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," he told Patterson, opening the door wide. "When do I get paid?"

"Ten minutes ago," the guy answered. "That's why I said ya had ta have that specific bank account before taking the job. The moment the goods are delivered and confirmed, the money comes in."

Creed nodded and said nothing else.

Patterson breathed out.

"Look, your job was just to hunt her down, not get the goods. That's why I didn't mention the details. I had no idea ya'd be so squeamish."

It pricked him and he almost snarled.

"A hunter knows how ta catch his prey, either dead or alive. Makin' a caught animal die slowly or suffer just fer the sake of it, that ain't huntin'. It's an amateur job."

Patterson nodded.

"Right, right. You know, there's always people looking for trophies. Tiger heads and stuffed panda babies or something. You got a thing against trophies?"

"I got a thing 'gainst amateurs an' sloppy jobs," he grunted, but then purposefully cleared the air with: " _Baby_ pandas? Who asks fer _baby_ pandas? Five year olds?"

Patterson laughed that he had no idea, but just last Christmas someone had ordered a stuffed panda with its young. And it had had to be two babies: a boy and a girl, with the appropriately colored bows around their necks. He'd been talking about it with some guys that were working nearly full time for the organisation.

"For Christmas! Even I know animals have their young in spring, not winter!"

Obviously, the request had been turned down… but only after they had tried to hire someone to do the deed.

"Seriously. The assholes who handle the clients must have no idea what real life is like."

"Paper pushing is a world o' fantasy," Creed sniggered. "But, hey! Maybe someone should suggest they place the order durin' Spring. An' then charge a hefty sum."

Patterson hadn't chatted for much longer but it had been enough for Creed to make very clear he was interested in any hunting job – actual animal hunting – the organisation might have. He had no problem with cubs or whatever, just not amateurish blood baths. He was a professional, after all, and he had no patience for that kind of so-called hunting.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	59. Creston: Jealousy

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **59\. Creston: Jealousy**

It was a hellishly long flight from Australia to Dubai, then to London, and then to Quebec, and finally to Cranbrook… Hell, he was never taking a job in Australia again! All through that much too long journey, Creed had been itching to hear Isabel sing for him.

She had sent him a text during his last night in the country, but he hadn't seen it till he was on the plane. Both men had woken up particularly early and rushed to the airport, and Creed hadn't risked bringing out the phone till they were sitting in their far off seats.

She'd texted that she hadn't dreamt of him but she'd fingered herself while thinking of him and did that make up for the lack of dreaming. He couldn't help but smile every one of the two million times he'd re-read the text. He even considered texting her back a couple of times, saying he was day-dreaming with her. Ha! As if he'd ever admit it to her.

But he admitted it to himself. It was so much nicer to fly if you were picturing your return home. His baby girl running towards him, shrieking of happiness to see him, yelling 'Pappa, Pappa!' And his sweet Nesi kissing him eagerly, smiling beautifully, gazing at him with all that undying love and adoration. Hell if seeing someone in love with you day after day wasn't one of the best things in the world! And it didn't even require any love on his side!

He imagined all the different ways he could give her the CD he'd picked for her. He didn't really know the Australian artist, as he had just picked something with a woman holding a guitar on the cover. They'd simply have to discover this artist together! And then he'd help her learn one of the songs. Or all of them!

He pretended it annoyed him, but he actually liked helping her memorise a new song. He'd recite the lyrics with a proper accent and she'd repeat them till she got them right. He enjoyed her concentration but, above all, he liked how intense she was about it. He loved the way her voice evolved, from essaying the right notes and timbre to flowing free and confident. The way she smiled at him once the work was done, proud and pleased. The gratefulness in her eyes.

He breathed out, antsy.

Just before heading to Australia, she'd told him the Gabrielsons were short of money because of health problems. They were a childless couple who lived on a piece of land that neighboured part of his own and they were both in their 60s. Creed hadn't bothered doing background checks on them – they were too old to be threats and Isabel had investigated them in her own way. She'd told him all about them and… actually, now that he was thinking about it, Isabel had mentioned they had one or two kids living somewhere… Whatever.

The point was that Isabel was well aware he would like to buy as many land plots as possible around his property – it was way too small for his taste – so she had told him about the Gabrielsons and asked if she should breach the topic with them. They hadn't yet decided to sell land, she'd underlined, but she could find out their plans and, if need be, convince them to let the friendly Kredalls buy it rather than go through the real estate loop.

"We could probably offfer them a better deal with less hassle," she'd mused on the phone while he was in his London hotel room waiting for his flight to Australia. "And they're nice people. I was thinking that we could even buy the land and let them keep on living there if they wish to. Of course, like I said, the selling thing was just a rumour and I still have to check what level of truth is in it."

He had told her to find out the details but to not open the game just yet. He wanted to know what land they were talking about exactly. She'd added she was investigating the other neighbours, too. The Harveys were supposedly in a tough spot, but they were hermit-like and confrontational so it took her longer to get details. However, she knew that the last time the Harveys had been in trouble, they'd sold a portion of their land to the Gabrielsons… and had hated their guts ever since. She'd give him all the juicy details when he got back.

That was another thing he looked forward to: her reports. The people she talked about meant nothing to him and he couldn't care less, but she sometimes made it sound like there was actual deadly plotting and maneuvering going about. Even if the topic was the most boring mundane thing! Not to mention she was always uncovering little pearls. She'd uncovered Benny Marsden's whole life, for example. All the way to the smallest details. And she'd dug up interesting dirt on that Miles guy that Harland Harper hunted with. Important details, those ones.

 _but I fingered myself while thinking about you!_ He re-read her text. _do you think that makes up for the lack of dreaming with you_

He'd give her a proper fingering soon enough. He looked out the window and tried to identify the mountains below. How much longer till Cranbrook?

* * *

Isabel knew exactly when Victor arrived: she had a living alarm to warn her, after all.

"Pappa!"

On that late April afternoon, Lilia had been running about the yard, racing after birds and bugs and whatever caught her attention, while Isabel sat on a lounge chair and finished the button holes on a little dress she was making for the child. Even though she bought a lot of her clothes at shops, sometimes she just had this picture perfect idea of a cute little dress or top she would never find in any shop, so she simply made them herself. It saved on the stress of having to go shopping for clothes, too.

"Pappa! Pappa!"

She ran to the little locked gate and hit her open hands excitedly on it. Isabel heard the vehicle shortly afterwards. It was speeding up the path and came to a shrieking halt in front of the yard as Lilia screamed with excitement.

"Where's Pappa's lil' devil?"

Isabel chukled and got up, but remained afar, watching the scene. Lilia screamed rather than answer and then screamed harder when Pappa jumped over the low fence and threw her up, high in the air.

Isabel's own heart was beating elatedly fast, dying to embrace him, to kiss him, to… He had left on this job before they could resume their sex life properly, after the miscarriage. Angie had had the great idea of suggesting they avoided actual penetration for at least a month and the man had insisted on following that instruction to a T, but then he'd gone on a stupidely long job on top of it. Two weeks! Right now, she was so desperate to be in his arms, or to have him inside her, making the world and her loss go away, that she even considered getting Lilia in her room for a sudden nap. Except that it wouldn't be fair to the child and, anyway, she was too electric. Not to mention her very responsible father kept adding to that electricity, throwing her up, swinging her around, taking her on a nose dipping plane flight.

When he finally stopped, she clinged to his neck and bit his face. Hard. Isabel crinched but Victor just laughed. The girl loved nothing but to bite: if she was annoyed with being with someone, she bit them; if she was happy to see someone, she bit them. And if she wanted to take a little fabric doll somewhere, she bit it and carried it about like that. Isabel had no idea how to wean her out of that habit!

"Here, bite Pappa's hand instead, you lil' bitin' devil."

And she did! Why did the man encourage the tendency?

"Now where's my big devil?"

Isabel laughed and took a step towards him, putting her arms around his waist and kissing him! God, how she'd missed… Ouch!

"Victoria, don't!" He snapped, putting an end to the kiss and the girl's jealous bite. "I've told ya once, I've told ya a thousand times: ya do not bite yer Mamma. D'ya hear me?"

She started crying while Isabel rubbed the bitten ear lobe. It had actually made blood! Victor put her down on the ground, which only made the crying harder, and inspected the bite mark.

"It's ok," Isabel said, but she didn't say no to the get well kisses he planted on her ear and neck.

Lilia's anger grew and she hit their legs, screaming furiously.

"Don't pay her much attention. She'll get over her jealosy," he said, before crouching with a frown that didn't match the patience in his voice. "Victoria, _stop_."

The child stopped for a moment, frown twisting her sweet features, then hit her Pappa. Well, she didn't really hit him, as Victor grabbed her little hand with a 'no' and put it down before releasing it. As usual, it enraged the girl who tried to hit her Pappa even harder. Every time, though, he simply deflected her attacks – if they could be called so – with a steady 'no'.

Isabel sighed and sat down, got the little dress. If only the child wasn't so jealous…

"No," Victor kept on saying in the same tone. "No. No. No."

It always amazed her how he didn't lose his patience. Once, not three weeks ago, he'd spent twenty minutes at it and Lilia had ended up crying herself to sleep out of pure frustration. It had been her sizzling furies that had got her nicknamed 'little devil'. Once she was asleep or out of ear reach, he sometimes mentioned he loved the fight and feistiness in her.

"She simply has ta learn she can't use 'em on her Mamma an' Pappa," he'd explained. "And she'll learn, make no mistake. It just takes a bit o' patience, that's all."

Isabel was sorry to say she didn't possess his patience and, when he wasn't around, simply grounded her in the crib and let her cry the fury out of the system. Of course Isabel was equally grounded, as she had to keep a close eye and make sure the sixteen month old didn't hurt herself when she hit the crib with her hands or when she tried to bite it, but she could not have spent nearly half an hour saying 'no' with the same patient tone.

Looking down at the dress, she sighed and put it aside.

"I'm going to get your bags," she said in Portuguese. "Shall I start unpacking them for you?"

"Just drop 'em upstairs and I'll take care of it later," he said, as usual.

He always seemed to want her as removed from his job as possible, and while she didn't want to know details of his kills and whatever else he was paid to do, it also saddened her that he wouldn't even comment something harmless. Or let her unpack! She had promised him she wouldn't touch his tablet and phone, once, but he still didn't trust her to go through his clothes. As if she wasn't the one putting them in the washing machine anyway!

When Isabel came down, Lilia's shrieks sounded delighted. Curious, she returned to the yard. She was still trying to hit Victor, but this time it looked more like a game, with Victor avoiding her touch rather than deflecting it, every now and then poking her with a finger that she tried to grab and stop.

"Shall I run you a hot bath?" Isabel asked after a while. "Fix some food?"

He grabbed the girl suddenly and threw her into the air again, before getting up and catching her fall.

"Yeah, go ahead. D'ya wanna watch Pappa have a bath, lil' devil?"

She loved sitting on a little stool and watching intently as Pappa soaked in the bath. Of course, she wanted to watch Mamma shower, too, and sometimes she wanted to go in and wash herself. The problem was really when she didn't want help washing.

Isabel fixed a heavy duty snack of cold meats then started making a quick dairy-based dessert. Victor wasn't usually much for sweets, to the exception of the first days after returning from a job, that is.

"Do you want to hear the details about the Gabrielsons?" She asked when he started coming down the stairs.

"D'ya think I could get 'em in English fer once?"

Isabel guessed he must be helping Lilia climb down the steps by herself, from how long it was taking him to get to the kitchen.

"Glenn has a problem wid his back and leg," she said. "And dey need to remodel de house because he has difficulty moving, and is going to be worse. Dey are considering move into Creston but only as last resource."

He finally entered the kitchen, Lilia walking happily next to him, and sat down to eat his snack.

"Dey love deir house and dey love spend de summer days in dis little cabin dey have near a little lake. Is more or less de size of our house widout de yards, and de cabin really is small. Sometimes dey organise picnics and things like dat with deir friends. Leslie Bloom is always going dere. Dey have a little road dat goes from de real road to deir house, and is a path from de road to the little lake. I thought – if you like de idea – we could buy de part of de property wid de lake _but_ not close de area. Dat way, de Gabrielsons and Leslie and everyone can use it like before."

Victor nodded, not interrupting his chewing. He probably hadn't eaten during his flight, she supposed. She wondered if she should tell him right away about the Harveys. She had learnt some details about them, but they were more serious. Graham Harvey had nearly killed a man, once, and he had been involved in fights with some regularity throughout his life. There were also a couple of situations involving shotguns… aimed at people he had a beef with.

Isabel wanted to ask him to check the area where their property met Harvey's land. More specifically, he wanted him to check if they were crossing over and, if need be, erect some sort of delimitation that couldn't allow for the 'hadn't noticed I was trespassing' excuse. On the other hand, she wanted him to relax a bit before facing possible threats to their security.

She sat down with a sigh, the need to feel his touch biting her again.

"I'm not asking details," she pre-empted, "but was de job ok?"

Because she would love for him to feel comfortable enough with her to at least make comments about how bad or how good something had been, even if he didn't refer to anything specific – she didn't really want to know specifics, anyway. She just wanted to be able to comfort him when his jobs were problematic and to be part of his joy when things went well. Unfortunately, his reaction was typical: he stopped chewing and frowned suspiciously at her.

"I'm just thinking dat if you had a good job, we can celebrate; and if you had a bad job, den I can compensate you."

He laughed.

"If that's the case, then it was the most rotten, miserable job ever!"

That was not what she was aiming for, but it was better than nothing.

"Very well, den… You're still eating, so I can sing a song for you." She smirked and lifted an eyebrow conspiratorily. "I have a new just for you. I get de guitar, ok?"

But he grabbed her wrist as she got up. A bit too harshly.

"What d'ya mean, a new song?"

She hesitated. She had no idea what was upsetting him, but figured the best course of action was to clarify the matter quickly.

"You like Tina Turner, so I asked Rosie to help me learn one of her songs for you. Simply de best. You like it, right?"

His expression couldn't be fiercer and Isabel was taken aback, especially as his grip tightened.

"Victor, what is wrong? You don't like de song, or… What?"

Her hand was starting to feel numb.

"Ya asked _Rosie_ ta teach ya de lyrics?"

He growled the question through a snarl and it finally dawned on her: he was jealous. He was jealous!

"Of course I ask her!" She blurted, her mind working quickly to get the right words and spear them into his ass of a brain. "You always say you don't have time to help me, dat I'm stupid because I need help and can't learn English lyrics alone. You think what? Dat I like annoying you wid things you hate? Huh? Of course I asked Rosie to help me so I don't have to irritate you more!"

Damn, his grip hurt! She clenched her teeth to keep herself from saying so, though. The man's face flushed for a moment, then he got up, picked Lilia from the floor and left.

Isabel felt breathless. Opening and closing her hand to get the blood flowing again, she sat down.

Did this mean he had been lying, when he said it annoyed him to have to recite the lyrics for her to learn? Or had it suddenly dawned on him he didn't want no one else… no else doing what? Taking his place or getting close to her. Because, if he could, he'd keep her locked in the house. God, she'd thought he was past his obssessive behaviour! Now what?

She took a deep breath and breathed out the frustration. She needed his touch and his embrace and his… God, she just wanted him all over her and what did he do instead? Act like a… Damn, he enfuriated her!

* * *

Victor had returned in time for Lilia's bath, just before dinner, but hadn't said a word to Isabel throughout the evening. Not even a grunt or a growl!

When they got in bed and he didn't even touch her, after sixteen days away on top of a month since the beginning of the miscarriage, Isabel decided she wasn't going to put up with it. She ached to feel his touch, whether it was snuggling skin to skin or fucking wildly, and if he thought he was going to sulk chastely next to her, he needed his brain checked. But that was ok; Isabel had learnt how to push him out of his angry sulkings. It was the exact same strategy she used with her baby girl: shock and distract.

"We have a security problem," she told him in English.

He sat up immediately.

"Graham Harvey likes get drunk and den shoot people dat he doesn't like. He also sometimes forgets he is walking past his land and into de land of neighbours, and den shoots dem because _dey_ are trespassing."

Although, according to her informants, that had only happened twice. Maybe three times.

"Why the hell didn't ya tell me immediately?"

Because, unlike a certain person, she actually cared to see him happy and relaxed and the man didn't exactly present an immediate danger. See if he extended the same consideration to her! Oh well, better give some more details and present them as justification.

"Autumn and winter are de more dangerous times," she shrugged. "In spring and summer, he gets drunk in bars and starts fights wid people dat cross wid him. In autumn and winter, he gets drunk at home and goes hunting rabbits in his property but is too drunk to remember de limits."

Although he also got drunk at the bar in fall, less often in winter.

"Apparently, he almost doesn't leave de house when starts snowing. Miles and his friends make bets about if he dies during winter or not."

Victor growled, snarling viciously. Much too viciously. For a moment she wondered if he was thinking about killing the old man.

"I thought," she added a bit more subdued, "dat maybe… I don't know how things are done in Canada. Can you tell me if is possible to put a fence around de entire property? He can't pretend he didn't see a fence."

The snarl softened into a frown, but his gaze was still too vicious for her taste.

"Ya can fence a property, or just put up signs… but signs can be ignored and a fence… I don't wanna be fenced in."

Even if it meant fencing people out?

"Cameras?" She asked, even if she more than expected the 'don't be stupid' glance he spared her.

"I'll check the area regularly," he ended up deciding. "And I'll find out what his usual routes are."

The way he breathed out and glanced side ways, though, told her he might be considering more options than those. However, there was nothing she could do. Perhaps the man was so busy head-butting his northern neighbours that he didn't even come close to the Kredall lands in the south. If that was the case, Victor wouldn't risk a kill that could attract attentions. She hoped.

There was another question that needed answering, anyway. Had he been sufficiently distracted? Or maybe she could use his anger to her advantage. They hadn't had angry sex for months and she wouldn't complain if they roughed it a bit. But she needed to get Harvey out of his mind first.

"Victor, fuck my brains out."

He looked at her with a surprised expression but didn't say anything.

"Don't play hard to catch, love. I spent sixteen days fingering myself and missing you. I'm hungry."

He didn't grin as he usually did. If anything, he sniffed the air discretly.

"Bite me," she whispered.

He still didn't move. Oh, to hell with having him make the first move! She knelt in bed and got rid of her nightie.

"If you don't bite, I will!"

But he finally snapped out of his apathy and kissed her, though perhaps not as harshly as she had expected. Frustrated, she clawed his back with her nails, which were unfortunately too short for her intent, and finally got a growl out of him. She couldn't help the yelped laugh when he threw her backwards onto the bed. Now it was more like it!

"Ya want it hard, do ya?"

"No, love, I want non-stop!"

But he didn't move, and she opened her eyes to meet his hard gaze. Now what?

"Ya don't ever ask no one ta teach ya no songs," he snarled. "Promise."

For a moment, she froze.

"Why?"

He hesitated then looked away from her.

"Tell me why and I promise."

He snarled harder, but she loved the way the tip of his fangs showed nonetheless.

"Why, Veetohr."

She felt his right hand, next to her thigh, become a tight fist.

"They ain't gonna push ya ta say it perfectly the way I do. I don't want ya makin' a fool of yerself singin' nonsense!"

Uh-huh.

"Don't lie," she answered. "You don't like help me wid dat or you… you… you exagerate your irritation?"

She had nearly put it in a more embarrassing way – for him at least – but he'd never admit to anything embarrassing.

"I don't exagerate nuthin'!" Oh, yes he did. It was crystal clear. The stupid, stupid man! "But ya singin' nonsense is way more annoyin' and I ain't gonna have it!"

"Shut up an' fuck me already!" She breathed out in frustration.

"Promise!"

"I never ask help to learn a song to no one except you. I promise."

He finally kissed her. Eagerly. Needy? Or perhaps the neediness was hers. She felt tears burn her eyes and bit him, enjoyed the growl vibrating through his chest. She had missed his touch so, so much!

"Make de world go away, Veetohr! Deus, make everything go away!"

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	60. Creston: Back to Satan

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **60\. Creston: Back to Satan**

Walking into Satan's Circle was like returning to his old self. For a moment, he almost forgot he wasn't there as Victor Sabretooth Creed. He headed to one of the private rooms where folks played poker but caught himself when Typhoid walked past him, eyeing him up and down, without recognising him. He ended up sitting down at a random table and taking a good look around him.

Besides the guys he usually spent time with at the club, there were tens of other people he recognised but had never associated with. He got out his phone to look busy and focused his ears. Someone was boasting about a lay at the table behind him, while the three guys at the table ahead of him were boasting over a job. Well, one of them was boasting. The other two had chickened out because the Avengers could have showed up. What job had that been, Creed wondered. After a couple of minutes, he gathered they had infiltred some place under the Avengers' protection to get information, and although it hadn't been in New York, it had been in a neighbouring state.

Two guys sat down at a table to his right. He recognised one of them as a King Pin's hot shot, but they were whispering two tables away, so he couldn't overhear them. Fed up, he got up and… Constrictor was at the bar.

He hesitated, but what the hell! He had an image inducer so the guy was not going to recognise him – not to mention he also had a freshly acquired skin moisturiser that efectivelly changed a person's scent. He wasn't a fan, but he wasn't taking changes while he was in New York City. Besides, this was precisely the aim of coming back!

He sat down on a conveniently empty stool next to ol' Frank and asked the bartender for a beer.

"What the…?"

Frank turned sharply to him and Creed cursed inwardly. The image inducer doesn't change voices, dammit! He hadn't thought of it.

"Ya got a problem?" He grumbled at Frank, who was still frowning at him.

He'd simply have to speak differently. Different expressions, better diction… Man, it was just like playing at being Kredall back in Creston!

"Uh… No. You sound exactly like an old buddy of mine. For a moment I thought he'd come back from the dead."

Creed shrugged.

"Only the good guys come back from the dead," he took a sip from his beer. "And I doubt he was playing for the angels if he used to come to this joint."

Frank laughed at that.

"Hell, no! But he was notoriously hard to kill. Had one of those super-strong healing factors."

"Right." Well, he might as well take the opportunity. "The name's L. C., by the way. Wouldn't mind one of those healing factors myself."

"Frank," he said with an uncharacteristic sigh. "I hear you. But, hey! No one lives forever, huh?"

Weird. Creed and Frank had always got on well together, but the guy seemed particularly down.

"So… you and this guy, what's his name?"

"Sabretooth."

"Right. You used to work together, huh?"

"Nah! I mean, yeah, but that was years ago! He moved on to working with mutant stuff. He started getting involved with geneticists and mutant programs, mutant brotherhoods, telepaths… Not my choice of work."

"Right." Frank's beer was almost finished so he told the bartender to get him another one. "What is your choice of work?"

"These days? Nothing. I've retired."

Creed frowned. _Frank_? Retired?

"Ya don't look that old."

The guy laughed at that.

"The world isn't what it used to be, L. C.. Just look at the Initiative! You either change or you go down. I've decided to pull back while I still have something to enjoy. Settle down, you know? After a while, this life of constant fighting and looking over your shoulder starts to get pointless. I want to enjoy the rest of my days quietly. Have some fun."

That was a pity. Wait! Settle down? He'd gotten himself a woman, too?

"How's about you? I've never seen you here before."

Creed shook his head, explained he'd just moved in from Europe.

"Hm. You sound pretty American to me."

"I grew up in lots of places," he grumbled. "Including a couple of states up north."

There was a lull in the conversation as they both sipped their beers. Creed took the chance to remind himself of what he was doing there, though. If Frank had retired, he needed to connect with whoever was still in the game.

"There's more business on this side of the Atlantic; that's why I moved." Frank nodded but didn't show much interest. "Someone mentioned this Club to me. Said it might be a good spot to meet possible partners. Some jobs are better done in a team, ya know?"

"Ah," Frank smirked. "What's your line of work again?"

"Quick, clean deaths. Accident-like."

"Any superpowers or gadgets?"

He nodded and lowered his voice: "A bit of strength above average and I kinda sense how people are feeling. Ya know: fear, excitement, lies…"

Frank nodded and agreed it was a useful pairing.

"Most guys here prefer to work with whoever is in their power-league. But if you're looking for a hook-up…"

"No," he cut in, "just wanna drink some beers, play some poker an' get to know some people. I already got a couple jobs this week."

"If ya wanna play, you may wanna show up on Friday. There's going to be a competition."

Oh, yeah! Creed had forgotten that Satan's Circle sometimes organised poker competitions. Not that he'd ever participated. With his temper, joining a competition and getting bad luck meant a berserker rage and he enjoyed the place too much to risk getting banned.

* * *

At the window of his hotel room, Creed shook his head. New York stank! Not particularly worse than Paris or London, but it still stank. He missed the wholesome air in Creston. Glancing at the watch, he sat on the bed with a sigh. He'd have to leave to ace some asshole in a few hours and he really didn't feel like it.

 _This life of constant fighting and looking over your shoulder starts to get pointless._

Frank was right on that one. It had taken Creed decades, but he'd gotten fed up, too. How had a kill come to mean so little to him? Once upon a time – and not that long ago – very few things were as exciting as a kill.

It had thrilled him to return to Satan's Circle… and yet. After Frank had left, Creed had remained for another hour. He'd even ended up joining in a game of pool with two normals and a mutant who could immitate voices. Much useful that power must be!

The Civil War had ended about a year ago, and even though the Initiative had gone through setbacks and adjustements, it was now working well. Or so the guys said. One of the normals he'd played with had commented it was a pity they had changed the original text of the Act. It turned out the guy was a hacker and he'd been dying to get his hands on the files of the registered vigilantes.

"But then they had that bright idea of not registering their real identities, just their secret ones. Why would I waste my time learning about their heights and power descriptions? We already know those!"

"These days," the mutant one had said, "it pays off to pretend you're not a mutant. Especially if you get involved in high stake jobs. They as much as dream there's a mutant involved, and every Initiative team near and far are dying to get the drop on you. In the best case scenario, you can get two teams quibbling over jurisdiction."

"What about those Brotherhoods of Mutants? Are they still around?"

They'd laughed.

"If they're around, they're playing it low key. Have you got any idea how many super-teams showed up everywhere? Hell, I know this guy who actually changed sides. Said it was more cost-efficient. And he still gets to blow stuff and pummel folks into hospital!"

Somehow, Creed didn't think that attitude would keep him in a super-angel team for long.

"But some o' those teams gotta be full of inexperienced asses," he'd suggested.

They'd shrugged and Creed had almost considered hiring the hacker to get him a good overview of who was in what team sporting what powers. Maybe later.

Now lying in bed, he lazily looked for fan-sites on super-heroes. There was one that had a list of all the official teams, including roasters. It wasn't offcial, and some of those entries were months old so they couldn't be much up to date. Anyway, it was obvious that some states were a bit ignored by the Initiative. If there were Mutant Brotherhoods, they'd be grounded in those areas, plotting quietly and waiting for the right time to hit fast and hard.

 _I want to enjoy the rest of my days quietly. Have some fun._

Creed wouldn't call life in Creston fun, but it was quiet and he had always enjoyed that. Why else had he kept going back to the woods to get away from it all when he got tired of his mercenary life?

It ocurred to him that the people he'd talked to in Satan tonight, even the people he'd just overheard! They sounded so… he wasn't sure what word to use. Petty? Definitely tiny minded. Some of the conversations were so… he couldn't put his finger on it, but it just… It was as if he was dealing with stupid kids who thought themselves so high and mighty, so smart, when in reality they were just stupid and too blind to see what really mattered.

Sure, the guys he hung out with in Creston – which were barely half a dozen – had some innane conversations too. But it was different. Could it be because of the kids? Whatever the topic, it was sure that sooner or later the kids would come up.

Still one hour to wait, he grumbled looking at the watch. In a whim, he got the phone and called Isabel. He was taking small jobs regularly these days, to make sure his new aliases were getting well accepted. It meant more or less a working week followed by a three week break at home. Sometimes, he still had to make an effort not to call her all the time he had a pause in action, but he'd recently hit upon a strategy that sated his need to hear her and which she enjoyed too: they watched TV together! Netflix and other TV streaming services had different shows in different countries, but you could usually find something in common. It was great spending some time just commenting – or most likely dissing – the films and the shows together over the phone. He'd rather have been in the same room with her, but…

"What happened?" Isabel mumbled sleepily in Portuguese.

Damn, he'd forgotten the time. She always woke up startled when he called her late without warning.

"What time is it?"

She slurred a curse and hung up. He chuckled and called back.

"Take it easy, Nesi. Is everythin' ok over there?"

She grunted a 'sim'.

"OK. Great. Go back ta sleep."

He dropped the phone on the bed with a sigh.

He was stuck in the city for three more days, and the only thing he had actually been looking for – spending time at Satan's Circle – had suddenly become a chore.

For a moment he remembered Ruth. Good ol' Ruth!

Maybe he could stop by, wearing his image inducer. But it wouldn't be the same. He had always had VIP treatment and the woman often kept him company, especially once she had stopped actually taking clients. As a new john, all he'd get was the girl he paid for. Looking at the ceiling, he realised visiting Ruth would have been more to see the old woman than her girls. He wasn't interested in getting laid right now, anyway. He just wanted to finish his business and get home.

Home.

How lame was that, huh?

He smirked.

How pleasant it was!

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	61. Creston: Pain Side Effects

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **61\. Creston: Pain Side Effects**

Creed dragged himself from under the rubble of the house. Damn, his legs hurt like all hell! The damned target had blown up his own house to get away, and European houses were not made of wood. No, sir. Why would they? They were made of brick and cement, which is a little bit heavier. Just a little bit.

The explosion would get neighbors, though, not to mention the firebrigade and the police, so he did his best to hide in the nearby underbrush. Once he was able to take a breath and go over the damage, he cursed. A broken left leg and a crushed right foot. Just his luck! And he'd been set to get on a plane out of Germany the following day! Now he'd have to locate his prey all over again. If the asshole pissed him too much, he might just forget the accident and rip him to shreds.

The pain lulled for a bit and he took the chance to get farther away. Fortunately, they were in a rural area with copses and groves everywhere. Well, everywhere that wasn't a cultivated field. Soon, though, the pain got far worse as his body worked to mend the crippled bones and he made himself as comfortable as possible in a hidden out of the way grove.

One of the worst things about healing serious damage was all the time you had to think about things you couldn't do anything about. Like killing the asshole and getting home. He still had much to do on the Gabrielson's ex-property. He'd spent July and August, when he wasn't on a job, fencing and gating the whole place. But, instead of putting up 'no trespassing' signs, he'd put up 'no littering' ones. Now, the pond was available to all the neighbours who might want to get wet. It had been Isabel's idea, really.

"If we're going to buy more neighbouring properties," she'd pointed out, "people are going to start talking about it in our backs, because of all the land hoarding. But if we make the pond accessible, then people will see it in a different light. Even if we end up fencing and locking other areas of our property, even then, it'll be ok. Because we welcome everyone in certain areas. We won't be selfish hoarders; we'll be thoughtful land managers."

It was smart thinking, since he did want to be in good standing with the community but still hoard as much land as possible. Isabel knew how to make both happen. Which meant he was going to make a path from the pond to the Gabrielsons' house so Glenn could easily travel outside now that he was facing the prospect of using a wheelchair.

"You'll be hailed as having a heart of gold," Isabel had explained. "No matter how rough, or unsocial, or even rude you may be in town, people will always say that Kredall may be hard to get along with, but he'll be there to help out when needed. Respect. That is what this path will get you."

Making the darned path in the middle of the woods didn'd sound like a high price for respect. He hadn't started on it yet, nor had the Gabrielsons been tipped off. Isabel had suggested it as a surprise: build the path only within their newly bought property and then, should the couple accept it, he'd continue it to the house. Anyway, he was still researching the best way to go about it. He wanted something that required as little maintenance as possible, but that blended with the environment.

The pain of the mending muscles and bone made him grimace and he focused harder on the summer. He could have fenced the whole place so much faster, but his Lil' Devil had wanted to stick around all day long. Isabel had been pissed about it, said it was dangerous. But it hadn't been!

Except all the times the girl had dashed for the pond, that is. There was a timber jetty in badly need of repair, and the girl had insisted in running towards it. There was no telling off that would stop her, as she'd either laugh or sulk. When Isabel had stopped her from going near, she'd thrown a tantrum – fully blown tantrum like he'd never seen one before – he had taken her there and had sat down with her so she could inspect it till she lost interest.

She hadn't lost interest for nearly two months. Once, she'd managed to escape her Mamma and she'd actually fallen into the water, which was very low due to the hot summer. That had given her a scare… for a couple of hours. He couldn't understand her attraction for the thing! But he loved her expression of happiness and delight when she was allowed to be on it.

Despite the pain in his leg and foot, Creed couldn't help smiling at his memories. That jetty turned her into a full-fledged devil, as stubborn as her Mamma and as tenacious as her Pappa. It thrilled him! Not so much Isabel. On two different occasions, she had lost her patience with the girl and spanked her.

He knew. He knew it had been two slaps on the diaper and they hadn't even been particularly strong. They definitely hadn't been in heated anger. But it had brought bile to his throat! It had reminded him of his Pa's belt. The dreadful buckle.

"She has to understand that running to that jetty has bad consequences, and I'd rather that consequence is a smack on her behind than a broken bone or worse," Isabel had explained, but he still would have none of it.

"I am not going to make the same mistake as my mother, Victor." She had insisted. "You know I almost died with my father in that car accident when I was three years old, right? Well, in the next years, she never smacked me. My grandparents were the same. By the time I was six, I was terrible! I was incredibly stubborn, I refused to obey, and I was angry if I was grounded, said it was unfair. If I wanted to do something, I did it and I shouldn't be punished becaused I had wanted to do it. That was me. I got to the point of insulting my mother! You know, name calling. My Grandma Lilia fixed that one: a good couple of smacks on my behind, pepper on my tongue and then she washed it out with white and blue soap. I never repeated again! I always heard her say that when my mother finally started smacking me, that it was too late. Children learn to control stubborness and to obey before they are five."

"There's other ways," he had griped.

"Look, I am not talking about beating her, ok? It's a couple of smacks on her behind. Never the face. And never more than a couple, because that means you lost your head and it doesn't work. Believe me, I know. A couple of smacks from Grandma Lilia with a cool head was a lesson; a bunch of smacks from my mother with a hot head meant that she had no power over me. I knew that so very well by the time I was eight or nine!"

Two or three smacks in cold blood… The thought still conjured the memory of the belt being unbuckled.

But Isabel was the one who knew better when it came to raising a child. Despite everything, he could see the difference between two smacks and too many to count belt slashes. Still… He hadn't opposed her, in the end, but he'd kept leaving the fencing work behind to sit with the girl on the jetty.

Jokingly, Isabel had taken up his task… and then she'd dropped the joke part. She had gotten the hang pretty quickly of the posthole digger, even if she took much longer than he did to make a hole, but that was a matter of strength difference. He had gone for a double rail fence, and the woman had had no problem placing the posts and securing them, but she obviously couldn't insert the rails by herself. Creed could do it just fine, but he had ended up preferring having her assistance. Victoria's, too!

Damn, what he wouldn't give to hear his Lil' Devil right about now! Or Isabel's voice singing…

Wait, in Creston it should be morning already!

He looked for his phone, hoping and nearly praying it was ok… Ah, it was! A cracked screen, that was all.

Breathing out in relief despite the sudden throb spasming through his crushed foot, he called her.

"Hi, love," she said casually in Portuguese.

There was background noise: people speaking, wind, flapping fabric…

"Ya're at the Farmer's Market?"

"Huh-huh. I promised Rosie an extra hour of music tutoring to make up for the ungodly early hour."

Isabel had taken to going shopping by herself because it was faster and she didn't want to spend too much time surrounded by a crowd. At nineteen months old, his Lil' Devil wanted to touch everything in a shop, and Isabel had no patience for the time that took. Well, it wasn't exactly patience, as Creed knew full well it was the men navigating the crowds Isabel was eager to avoid, but the woman always said 'I have no patience' as if that was the real problem and he played along.

Sometimes, Creed went with her on those shopping excursions just to keep a watch on the girl and make sure she didn't delay her Mamma. Or, better yet, to teach her the names of the things. The Farmer's Market was particularly good for it as the people in the stalls found her curiosity adorable and encouraged her to touch all the stuff. He had just started teaching his baby girl about prices.

"Are you still planning on getting back for dinner tomorrow? I'm planning some boar. I haven't had boar meat for years and…"

"No," he cut her off just as another jolt of pain hit him hard. "I got a crushed foot an' that's gonna take some time ta heal. And I still gotta nab the asshole!"

Creed breathed sharply in as one jolt receded and another hit the other leg, slowly but surely.

"Fuckin' ass blew his house!" He vented. "This one ain't no dumb dim-wit, which means he's on the run, watchin' over his shoulder, an' _that_ means it's gonna be harder ta find 'im again. I ain't got no idea when I'll be able ta get back!"

As the pain diminished, he breathed out and noticed the silence.

"Nesi?"

The voices in the background came and went and her breathing was a bit fast.

"What's happenin', Isabel?"

"Is just a second," she said breathlessly in English.

She was running, he realised. Then he heard her jeep being unlocked and she got in, banged the door close.

"Ok, I'm in de car. We can talk and people don't hear."

Oh, that was…

"Sure. What d'ya wanna talk 'bout?"

Silence. He adjusted the position of the broken leg to make sure it was healing properly, hissing through the process. A broken leg could take a couple of hours to heal, maybe a bit longer if it was broken in more than one place, but you always wanted to make sure it healed right. Otherwise, you'd have to break it in the same place again – which could be tricky – and resume the whole process. Not fun. But a crushed bone, fractured in several places, took much longer, and having to deal with a crushed foot and a broken leg simultaneously would make the healing slower.

"Silence ain't the best conversation topic, woman!"

"I'm sorry," she sounded upset, but why? "I heard you… uh… de pain is very bad?"

He snarled, the pain draining any patience he might have had for anyone's pity.

"I've had worse," he growled. "What d'ya wanna talk about already?"

"Uh… Rosie is learning to…"

"I don't give a shit 'bout that kid!"

He breathed out, then breathed in. He hated crushed bones. He really, really hated crushed bones.

"Uh… You like liquors? Not like liquor shop… I think. I mean, liquors like… really strong drinks made wid really strong… uh… brandy? And den fruit and sugar inside to give flavour."

"I like strong drinks," he grumbled.

"Because I'm thinking about make ginginha. You know…"

"Yeah, yeah, I remember. I ain't stupid."

It was one of those traditional Portuguese liquors Isabel had whined about not being able to taste while pregnant, back in the country. Ginginha was the reddish one, if he wasn't mistaken. The one made with sour cherries.

"What else ya gonna do?"

"Uh… compotas? Uh…"

"Jam?"

"Yes. I'm thinking I can make lots and lots and put dem in de pantry to make tortas during winter. I can dry some, too. And you can put everything in your pancakes!"

He nodded. He liked coming back home to her cooking and, even though he preferred pancakes with maple syrup – the real thing, not the the fake corn syrup – especially the stronger grade B, he wouldn't mind adding some fruit preserves to the mix.

"I'll tell ya when I buy the plane tickets and ya can make me some."

He grimaced as the pain on the crushed foot outshone the one of the broken leg.

"Victor?"

"Healin' hurts, ok?" He snapped. "The faster the body tries ta heal somethin', the more it hurts. Bones especially, so shut up."

He breathed better for a moment, then noticed the heavy silence.

"Nesi?"

"I'm here," she said quietly.

He sighed and closed his eyes.

"Say somethin'," because her voice made it easier to put up with the pain.

Usually, he embraced the pain and let it fuel his anger to the edge of a berserker rage. The moment the damage was barely fixed, he'd be snarling after his prey, not resting till he'd dismembered someone as messily as possible. He never even thought about it, he just did it. However, it was much nicer to spend the time chatting to the woman, instead of enjoying the pain of the mending wounds. As if 'enjoying' was a good description!

"You want dat I sing to you?"

He opened the eyes at the idea.

"Yes, that'd be nice!"

So nice indeed. Especially as she started with his song, the one where she died in his arms. He almost forgot his pain for a few moments.

Creed did not keep track of how many songs she went through, he simply let her sweet voice lull him into some degree of peacefulness. Of course it wasn't the same as if she were next to him. Now that he had her voice, he hungered for her scent. Her touch, too.

"I wish ya were here with me," he said softly in between songs.

"… where are you?"

"Germany," he said without a thought.

"Oh, dat is too distant. If you were here in Canada, I could go and be wid you a little."

He nearly sat up, but his leg prevented it.

"Don't be stupid, woman!"

However, he was a bit breathless at the thought. He was on a job and she wanted to come and get in the middle of a messy soon-to-happen bloodbath? How stupid could one get!

"Would ya really come or are ya just sayin' it?"

"If I say I go to you, den I go to you!"

She said it harshly, maybe a bit pissed, and he believed her. She was so stupid! And yet he couldn't help the chuckle of… he wasn't exactly sure what was funny enough to merit chuckling.

"Victor Creed," her voice sure sounded angry this time around. "You are laughing of me?"

"What if I am?"

"I turn off dis phone and I don't talk wid you until you return!"

He laughed louder.

"In that case, I ain't laughin' at ya."

"Is better not!" Her voice was still harsh.

"Oh, com'on!" He sniggered loudly. "Would I ever laugh at ya, my Nesi? Big innocent me?"

"You are being silly," but her voice was warmer.

"Pain side effect," he shrugged.

Though the pain wasn't really that bad anymore. He checked on the progress of the leg while she commented that pain can't only have bad side effects. Huh?

"Are ya sayin' bein' silly is a good thing?"

"Maybe," she giggled.

"I don't take no maybes, woman. It's yes or no."

"Hmmmmmm… Yes."

Oh, really? Wait a minute…

"Is that yer way o' sayin' ya wants me gettin' hurt more often so pain'll make me silly?"

She actually laughed at that. Such a pretty laugh she had.

"No, of course not! Are worst side effects, is all. Is de leg all good yet?"

He sighed.

"The leg's doin' well, but it was just broken. The crushed foot is what's messin' up the healin' time."

"I thought you healed very fast from everything."

He shook his head.

"Shot wounds an' cuts, even if they're deep, heal really fast. If there's actual meat ripped out, it takes a bit longer, but bones are the worst. Especially crushed bones. And it ain't just the pain! Once the bone is almost good, it starts itchin' like all hell. But the itch is inside the bone so there's nuthin' I can do ta lessen it."

"Oh," she said quietly.

"But it's ok," he added quickly. "It's almost done."

It wasn't, though. Maybe in another hour or two.

"Ah, so de itch is starting, right? You want dat I sing a bit more?"

That would be perfect!

"If ya feel like it," he shrugged before leaning back and relaxing.

He'd never realised before that singing had analgesic properties. They should have music playing at hospitals.

* * *

I'm sorry, but I prefer my ferals to suffer through the healing. I was never a fan of the tendency to make ferals impossible to kill. I prefer it when the wounds take a toll and they have to be careful not to overload their healing factors. After all, if they're impossible to kill killing machines, where's the danger? Broken bones can take from 3 weeks (young children) to 8 weeks (adults) to heal. Healing a fracture in 3 hours is still a super-human feat, but healing it in three minutes is just dismissing obstacles.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	62. Creston: Leave me Alone

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **62\. Creston: Leave me Alone**

Victor had arrived shortly after lunch. He was still annoyed because of the two day delay the broken leg had caused him, but Lilia had quickly gotten him in a good mood. Isabel had made the promised boar, as well as some cake stuffed with berry jam and sprinkled with strong brandy. He'd been in such a good mood that Isabel had asked if they could take a few days and go to the beach, somewhere south and warm.

"Lilia Victoria has only seen the ocean once," on the same day she'd been baptised. "It is important she gets to experience the sea, love."

She didn't mention she missed the smell of the ocean, the rumble of the breaking waves, the hot fine sand under her feet.

"I'll start lookin' fer properties in California," he'd simply said.

Did that mean there would be no sea fun this summer? Not that there were many more days of summer… one or two weeks and they'd be buried in colourful Autumn. Or, should she say, quickly cooling Autumn?

"We can't just rent a house during five days?" She asked nicely, and in English, too.

He shook his head.

"I've worked in California before, and I know too many people in my line o' work that head t' California regularly. I ain't gonna risk bein' spotted an' recognised. It's safer ta identify a dozen spots that have everythin' we need – really small place, preferably just a bunch of houses in the middle o' nowhere, with a small local store that carries the essentials nearby – then I'll investigate an area of about 100 miles surroundin' each one."

That was going to take years!

"Once I choose the two or three best spots, I can investigate the actual people livin' there, in an area of about two ta three miles. You can choose whatever property ya want in the safest two."

Which would be in twenty years.

"Ok," she said.

He was the expert in security and she didn't really want to risk having Sabretooth brought to life by accident.

That night, and for the first time, Lilia didn't want to breastfeed and she remained in her father's lap playing with a fabric mouse till she fell asleep. It upset Isabel somewhat. She was only twenty months old and Isabel cherished that moment with her baby girl.

It made her feel more intensely that time was slipping by without a second child coming in to make her family busier and happier. The miscarriage had been about five months and a half ago. She had agreed with Victor that they'd wait six months in between failures – for each miscarriage was a failure of her body – but perhaps they didn't have to wait exactly six months. If she were to get fertile sooner, he simply wouldn't be able to resist her. Of course, in the last five months he hadn't been around during her fertile period not even once. He might say he had to take more jobs because of new aliases he needed, but she suspected he was trying to make his jobs coincide with her fertile days.

As they left Lilia sleeping in her horse pulled carriage, Victor groped her ass. Isabel didn't let him get to their bedroom and kissed him in the middle of the corridor. The first round was right there, on the runner covering the wooden floor, and he was so passionate that she was hopeful.

"Hey," she asked, still breathing hard. "I'm fertile?"

He shook his head in a negative and nibbled her chin.

"Ya're gonna get cold. Com'on!"

* * *

The nights after a job were always bad. Sometimes Isabel wondered if his nightmares involved his dangerous career getting a bit too close to home. Did he dream of a hitman doing to his family what he had done to someone else's? Maybe. She couldn't hide that the thought frightened her too.

Isabel couldn't sleep that night for some reason. She felt… lonely, maybe? Restless at any rate. When Victor grunted in his sleep, his face snarling into a deep frown, she felt the eternal desire of comforting him the way he comforted her. Yes, she knew he didn't like it. She knew that, even back in Portugal, touching him would scare him away into the streets or the Portuguese version of woods, which must be a grove by Canadian standards. She knew all that! But, that night, she felt the urge to try.

Perhaps if she comforted him before he was awake and able to realise what she was doing? It was a chance worthy of every effort.

Isabel kissed his shoulder gently, before touching him with a hand. The plan was to snuggle next to him and sing his song in whispers. Instead, though, he snapped awake at the slightest touch of her lips.

He sat up, breathing hard, and it took him a long moment to glance her way and frown.

"What the hell are you awake fer?"

She could have said she was having insomnia, making sure he realised she wasn't awake for his sake, especially not for the sake of his bad dreams and his secret pain. That would soften him. She could even say that, if he was planning to play at insomniacs too, they might as well get busy on something sexy. But she wanted to hold him and comfort him. The desire burnt strong inside her.

"You were having a bad dream," she said softly.

"Just fuck off an' get back ta sleep," he grunted, getting up.

Isabel acted without thinking and grabbed his arm. He was so surprised he didn't even shake her off, just looked back at her.

"Let me help," she pretty much begged. "Let me scare away your nightmares like you d…"

He shook her hands as if her touch burnt and, for once, Isabel did feel fearful. Not because she thought he might hurt her, but because of all the loathing in his snarl.

"But you're hurting, Victor," she said desperately, even if she knew despair would not help her cause, much the opposite. "De bad dreams consume you every time you have a job and you never let me…"

"Shut the fuck up," he snarled. "I don't need yer help fer nuthin', ya dumb cunt. You ain't nuthin' but a nuisance that I put up fer my cub's sake!"

She'd rather he had punched her. It would have hurt so much less!

She saw him grab the jeans he'd left on the chair and open the window to the balcony, jump over the rail as if it were the ground floor.

For what felt like hours, Isabel sat motionless on the bed, tears trickling down her face.

Why had she pushed the envelope? She knew he was a different man when he woke up from a nightmare. She knew he couldn't stand her touch, her… pity? Was it pity he fancied he saw on her and was that what enraged him so much? But it wasn't! She just wanted…

She just wanted to hold him in her arms and scare his demons away.

That was all.

Isabel shook her head and got up, went to the bathroom to wash the tears from her face. She was not going to take his words at face value. He had felt cornered by her and had lashed out, that was all. He could have attacked physically, or verbally. He'd gone for verbally and had used the line he knew would cut the deepest.

And if it were true? If he really only saw her as…

No! Just because he didn't love her, it didn't mean he didn't enjoy her company. That was point one. Second: loving someone means putting up with annoying little habits. You forgive those nasty habits – if you do – because you love that person. But, if Victor didn't love her, then putting up with whatever habits she had and which he found annoying… putting up with her would require a greater effort than if he loved her. Besides, didn't she know full well that everything he did was for the sake of his daughter?

It still hurt.

And she still stubbornly wanted to rescue him from the hold of his demons!

And she would. The very devil would laugh if she didn't!

She returned to the room and adjusted the bed sheets, then she checked on her daughter before returning to bed and lying awake, frowning angrily at the ceiling.

She would find a way to comfort him, one way or the other. It was all a matter of… of… She didn't know yet. But she'd figure it out! She'd comfort the man if it was the last thing she ever did!

* * *

When dawn broke, Creed had no idea where he was. Well, he was Northeast of Mt Thompson and he hadn't crossed the Goat River, but he had no idea if he was closer to the river or to the frontier with the US and, similarly, he had no idea if he was closer to the Creston Valley or to Yahk and the Moyie River. Seeing as his house stood about 15 miles away from Yahk, in a straight line, and knowing he had advanced blindly through the darkness of the night cover, he could be almost anywhere.

He was tired too. He'd spent the night on the move, always on the edge of a berserker rage but never quite getting there. The difficulty of some areas had spurred his anger and frustration so he'd gone against any cliffs and steep hills which had come up in his way, but he'd also followed streams and little valleys. He had probably zig-zagged aimlessly all through the night.

Now, though, he looked about himself and forced himself to calm down and think.

He was still pissed at Isabel. What the hell did the damned woman think! A weak, little helpless frail of a human! He did not need her or her comforting or… nothing! He needed her for absolutely nothing!

Besides being a Mamma for his child, obviously, but that didn't count.

Had she gotten the message, last night? He wasn't sure. He should go back and make sure she understood that, if she ever had the gall to try and sooth him – as if he needed soothing! – he'd kick her out. He was not going to put with that kind of shit in his own house, damnit!

Well, not kick her out of the house, but out of his room, surely. Why the hell was he the one who had to leave?

Yeah, that's what he should do. Go back and set her to straights. That was what he was going to do.

He glanced around and tried to get his bearings. He was in a low area, completely engulfed by trees, so he started moving at a brisk pace, looking for something he could identify as a landmark. His stomach soon warned him he should eat, but he'd just started climbing a steep hill so he didn't stop. He wanted to know where exactly he was first.

Before he could get a good view of the area around him, though, he heard the sirens.

Victoria.

But no, what a stupid thought! Why would the sirens mean his daughter was in danger?

His heart rate would not go back to normal, though. Not without first making sure this had nothing to do with his family. Forgetting about the high ground, he sped through the forest. Eventually, the terrain gave way to a relatively steep slope and he sped downwards as the Iron Range Mountain became visible ahead of him. He was near Arrow Creek.

He could hear the voices by now. Dogs. Careful not to be seen, he approached the tree line that ended on the river bank and crouched to observe the scene. There was a camping ground by the Crosnest Hwy, shortly after the Walker Bridge, and the local Search and Rescue van, bright red with yellow letters, was already parked there. The dogs belonged to either the camping ground's owners or to campers and… There was a couple by the SAR van, the man holding the woman, who was crying. A lost kid, he figured.

Three men wearing the Search and Rescue bright orange jackets had just crossed the river using the Walker Bridge and were now following the river bank. He recogised one of them – lucky him – Nelson Holman, the ex-Mountie who now worked at the Track Bar as a barman slash security muscle.

What to do?

Creed took a good look at himself. He was still wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and both his presence and his appearance would spark a handful of questions. Despite the curiosity, he should backtrack carefully and… Maybe not. If they brought out dogs, they'd identify someone had been around and if anyone in the Search and Rescue team had tracking abilities, they'd likely spot his tracks, too.

He made his decision and got up, started walking towards the men. They were busy looking at the ground and the underbrush, probably looking for footprints and other signs of the kid.

"Hey, there!" He called out, startling the three men. "Is someone lost?"

"Kredall?" Nelson frowned, looking him up and down. "What are you doing here?"

"Spent the night in the woods," he said with a shrug. "There's nuthin' keeps yer survival skills sharper than goin' off blindly into the woods at night, then backtrackin' in the morning."

The two SAR guys he didn't know exchanged a glance, one of them grumbling a 'who the fuck'.

"Barefoot?"

"I can go off into the woods wearin' nuthin' but these jeans and come out a month later without a hitch. Been doin' it since I was a kid."

One way or the other.

"Survivalist nutcase, eh?" The same SAR guy snorted.

"You're the only fucked up nutcase here, asshole. Now, d'ya need a hand trackin' the kid or what?"

The asshole got ticked, even though Creed felt he'd been fairly civil. But the other SAR guy, the quiet one, told Vinny to cool it.

"Kredall, right? I'm Gareth Walterson. Have you ever helped in search and rescue?"

He hesitated. He could say 'no', he had far more experience with 'search and destroy' stints afterall, but that would make him look less skilled. Anyway, he didn't have to offer his help in any rescue, just a search.

"My line o' work includes plenty o' 'search an' retrieve'," he ended up saying. "I can hunt that kid down in no time."

Hmm. Maybe not the best choice of words from Gareth's expression.

"Ok. We've got a serch dog coming in, but if you can track, that can only help. You got to talk to Colin Ellis, by the van. He's the Incident Commander, so he has to get your name and then he'll tell you what you need to know."

"How old is the kid?" Creed asked after nodding at the information.

"Seven. How do you know it's a kid?"

He pointed at the camping ground, on the other side of the river.

"What else with 'em parents crying over there. They look too young ta be a teenager."

Gareth nodded that it made sense then urged him to hurry up.

"We were the first searchers to arrive and since it's likely the kid ran off during the night, the three of us volunteered to kick up a hasty search… you know, give a quick look around. But Colin is waiting for the rest of the command staff to finish setting the Incident Base. He'll sign you in and will probably team you up with the next searchers."

It all sounded so organised. So military, even. For a moment he wondered why he was offering his help, as he could simply have presented himself as a survivalist finishing his work-out, but it was too late to backtrack now. It would only make his Kredall persona look bad. So he slid down the slope to the Goat River and landed in cold water up to his knees.

"Hey!" The Vinny asshole called him. "Are you nuts? We already have enough to worry about; we don't need cocky jackasses getting hypothermia!"

"I ain't no pansy wallflower," Creed snorted.

He took a few steps forward before diving and swimming across. The leaves hadn't yet started to change colour, but the early September had already brought a new chill to the waters, especially in the cool morning. It was great to make his blood run faster!

"What the hell…"

"Hey, Colin," he greeted. "I was finishin' an overnight workout when I heard the sirens. D'ya want a hand trackin' the lost kid?"

The man looked him up and down then shook his head and asked if he'd ever taken part in search and rescues before.

"As I told Gareth just a minute ago, I'm an expert on the search part. I can find that kid an' then you guys can do the 'rescue' end o' the business."

The guy once more looked him up and down.

"I'll write down your name. I've got more people coming in and you'll partner with them, ok?"

Creed nodded his understanding as two cars sped into the area. Colin looked up from his form to the cars, but kept on talking.

"Have you considered actually joining Creston Valley SAR? If you have tracking skills, you'd be a great asset to the team. I'm the only one who's ever done the tracking course and it always helps to have more people with that skill."

A dog sprung out of the car and cheerfully lept after the handler, a stocky… hey, wasn't she a nurse at Angie's clinic? Yeah, she was. Tiffany Ericson, if his memory served him right. He stepped away but remained close enough to hear both Colin's instructions and the parents, as they were talking to fellow campers.

The missing seven-year-old boy was not used to the woods, since his family lived in the Vancouver suburbs and rarely went out into the countryside, but the child was enthusiastic about every type of survival show in the wild, not to mention shows about wildlife and wilderness – his dream job was to become a park warden – and he'd convinced the parents to go on this trip for his birthday. The day before, before going to bed, the family had gone on a stroll to the bridge and the boy had wanted to go around and step into the forested area nearby, but the parents had vetoed the idea and he'd sulked by the river until he'd been forced to go to bed. Just before sunrise, the father had gotten up to take a leak and had noticed the boy was gone.

Berry, the dog, was given one of the boy's T-shirts to smell and Creed positioned himself so he could take a hold of the item for a few seconds, get a good whiff of the boy's scent.

It seemed to Creed that the dog was still young, probably fresh out of training, but the woman seemed confident so was probably not a newbie. The dog headed towards the river, sniffing the ground. A tracker. An air scenting dog would have been better, since it wouldn't need to follow the scent on the ground and could take shortcuts to the areas with strongest concentrations of the scent. Still, not every dog is trained for that. The young Berry might take a bit longer, but she'd get there eventually.

"He spent the evening playing in this area," the mother insisted. "He'd run to the river, play in the water and run up to say that he'd seen a fish or a frog or… leaves, twigs! And when we refused to go to the forest, on the other side of the bridge, he started kicking the pebbles and throwing them, making patterns with them."

Tiffany Ericson nodded at the information and took Berry towards the bridge, as more cars arrived bearing folks with the distinctive orange jacket.

"Go with Tiff and Berry," Colin told him.

Creed shook his head.

"I wanna check somethin' on this side o' the river first. I can easily swim across ta join 'em once I'm done."

Colin hesitated, but the other guys – some of which must be part of the command chain Gareth had mentioned – got his attention and Creed slipped away.

Unlike the dog, Creed could follow scents through the air. He walked to the river edge and knelt. The scent of the boy was strong on the ground. Recent, too. Much too recent. The parents had just fooled the dog handler. She'd put two and two together once the dog didn't catch a trail by the bridge, but time was suddenly ticking for him.

He got up and took a step into the water, then breathed in deeply. There was a light breeze blowing eastwards, carrying the smell of what lay downstream. He breathed again, almost expecting to feel the scent of death. Instead, he felt the boy's scent coming from downstream. At least a mile.

Right. The boy had either walked up to the river and been caught by the current accidentally, or he'd been stupid enough to think he could swim across it. He hesitated for a second. Should he call the others and tip them off? No. What proof would he be able to give? The dog would lead them back to the river eventually.

He started following the river down. There were trees and undergrowth that quickly hid him from view and he moved into a jog, eyes going through every shadow and nook a child could crawl into. Every now and then, he stopped to check the scent trail. It was getting stronger.

There!

The white T-shirt shone like a beacon to his eyes and Creed stopped. The boy had pulled himself up the slope and had curled up into a wet ball under some bushes. He looked back. The Search and Rescue group could be heard not far off and Creed was sure they had realised the boy had fallen into the water and were now scouring the river banks downstream. He let out three shrill whistles before shouting out he'd found him. Then he dove and swam to the other side.

The child was shivering uncontrolably and didn't even open the eyes when Creed picked him up. He had hypothermia, anyone could see that, but Creed had no idea how bad the case might be. Anyway, he had to get the boy back to the other side. By the time he got back in the water, the ambulance from the camping ground was already driving slowly on the road, obviously trying to spot him. He came up on the other side in time to hand over the boy to the two paramedics, who hurried him into the ambulance.

"Here," one of them handed over a blanket.

He almost refused the thing, but the guy turned away and ran to the ambulance so he put the blanket over his back. He couldn't look too unusual, anyway. Working out barefoot in the middle of the woods and swimming through cold rivers was unusual enough.

The rest of the search party was already getting to the place and Gareth told him Colin Ellis would like to have a word with him. Probably to ask him how he'd known where to search before anyone else. There was no way he could shrug it off with having followed the boy's tracks, so he better think up something reasonable.

When he got back, a lot of the cars were already leaving. Colin was busy handling paperwork and talking to his fellow command staff – at least Creed supposed they were – so he leaned on the van, as much out of the way as possible, and waited.

"Hey, there you are. How the hell did you know he was downstream?"

He shrugged.

"It's somethin' I picked up when my Lil' Devil started walkin' about. Kids never run off to where ya think they're gonna run off. So when the parents got adamant he'd gone over the bridge, I just had this gut feelin' he'd gone the other way"

The guy nodded and smirked it was something he'd never have thought of. Then he slapped Creed's shoulder with a resounding 'it was good to have you around, man!'. He hadn't been expecting that sudden cheer.

"Kids! Damn if they don't get in the worst scraps for the worst reasons. I'm paying you a drink next time I see you at the Track Bar, eh? But tell me something: what is it you do exactly?"

"Security consultant. Any other info ya may wanna ask 'bout is covered by very detailed non-disclosure agreements."

"Right. But you said you're used to searching, and… I'm guessing you need survival skills too?"

Creed grinned.

"On occasion. I've been survivin' out in the woods since I can remember, so it's more fun than work, really."

"First aid training?"

Creed shook his head. He knew more than most folks, but it had really just been stuff he'd picked up over the years.

Colin breathed out and nodded.

"Look, I'm really grateful you decided to give a hand and… we've got lots of great people here, but we're always ready to welcome more. If you want to join Creston Valley SAR, we'll be more than happy to have you."

That was a nice offer, all very social and community-minded, but… Come to think of it, it might be a good idea. Isabel was the one all community-minded while he tried to remain in the background and out of it as much as possible, but if roughing out in the wilderness with these assholes counted as social, that would be almost fun.

"I'll think 'bout it," he said, trying to weigh the pros and cons.

He'd have to put up with some jerks like that Vinny asshole, after all. And once he signed into it, he couldn't simply get out as it would reflect poorly on his Kredall persona. Would it really be worth the hassle?

"We meet every two weeks on Thursday evenings. Down in Lister, just south of the Golf Club. Show up next week and I'll give you the rundown on the courses you'll need."

Uh… what?

"What fuckin' courses are ya talkin' 'bout?"

Colin seemed surprised, as if it were common knowledge.

"You can't be an official SAR member without undergoing some courses about the basics: search techniques, ropes, map reading, navigating by compass… First aid."

Was the asshole for real?

"I can read a fuckin' map."

"So you'll pass the course with flying colours. What do you want me to say? You need to have your skills certified so the managers know who exactly they can count on for what. Gut instincts are great, but SAR doesn't rely on them as a rule. We need actual knowledge, safe procedures and lots of practice. Will you show up next week?"

Creed shrugged then handed him the blanket.

"I gotta head back. Still got some miles ta walk."

"I can give you a lift."

"No need," he said without even looking back. "I can use the workout."

To get rid of the irritation, he didn't add. As if he needed to do some pansy courses which probably couldn't teach a tenth of what he already knew!

* * *

The nearly two-hour hike gave him time to get even more irritated, though. The actual rescueing had actually been kind of nice and, for a moment, he had even looked forward to pulling his weight on the whole community angle Isabel was always working on. While he enjoyed the confidence and assertiveness she glowed with while handling folks, he was still very much aware he was dependent on her when it came to socialising.

In fact, every time he went over the exchange, the more he felt he had genuinely wanted to join the group. The more he expected it to be somewhat fun, since most of those people knew how to behave in the wild. Hell, full blown fun! How many people had he worked with who actually knew what to do in the middle of the wilderness? Who had enjoyed it?

And then that ridiculous demand of doing basic courses. As if he needed _basic_ courses of whatever! He didn't even need advanced courses.

As he walked on, he fancied he still felt the boy's wet body shivering in his arms and he remembered, each time with more detail and more intensity, how good it had felt, bringing him to safety.

He went over the exchange with the paramedics and he could have sworn they had thanked him, that they had said the boy would have died if he had been found a minute later.

He could become a freaking hero for the community, everyone praising Victor Kredall in awe and respect, and that damned Colin Ellis wanted him to go through basic courses as if he was a novice who couldn't tell left from right. Like hell was he going to humilliate himself and undergo anything. He knew more than all of those assholes put together!

And yet he could feel the shivering cold body in his arms.

He realised, for the millionth time, that kids in close contact caused him to immediately associate them to his daughter, and he still wasn't sure if that was good or bad. Shouldn't he fight that mellowing instinct when it had nothing to do with his baby girl? He didn't know. It did have the advantage of making him less annoyed by the little tykes, though, which was great while he was in Creston.

That boy had been so helpless and fully dependent on him. Much like his infant baby girl, in her first months of life. Now she was more autonomous, even if she was preciously inexperienced and ignorant of everything, but she was an eager and curious little cub, always trying to do stuff all by herself. It filled him with a sense of pride and satisfaction as he had never known in all of his life and he couldn't get tired of it!

So cold, that boy had been, shivering in his arms.

He wanted nothing but to get home and feel his baby's warm body. He'd make sure she would never do something as stupid as the boy. And, if something happened and she ended up inside a cold river in a cold night, she'd know exactly what to do to avoid nearly dying of cold. Or actually dying.

As he went through Grahame Harvey's land, he didn't even bother to check on the asshole. He needed to hold his baby girl, make sure she was safe. He only stopped when he reached the tree line on his backyard.

It was a beautiful sight, to his eyes. His house with the yards, even if the kitchen one was hidden by the building of the garage, in the back. The two cabins were on the other side, next to the music yard, one holding the surveillance equipment and the other with the necessary material to cure the pelts of the animals he hunted. His baby girl was playing in the music yard. It had been Isabel who'd nicknamed so, since the music room opened to it.

"Pappa! Pappa!" He heard suddenly, the sound pulling him forth with a thrill of pleasure as nothing else could give him these days. "Pappa!"

It plastered a wide grin of pure pleasure on his face, and not only was he aware of it, he didn't mind it. Soon, he saw Isabel holding the restless girl and he jogged the rest of the way to get the child who shrieked excitedly to be in his arms.

"Quit yer screamin', girl!" He chuckled. "Yer Pappa's been busy. Just saved a dumb lil' boy and you, my Lil' Devil, you ain't never gonna be in his shoes, 'cause I'm gonna make damn sure you'll know better."

She clapped then asked to be put down, which he did, crouching beside her.

"Ee'a keekee!" She started going through the grass, holding his finger so he wouldn't go away. "Keekee! Keekee kee."

Crickets. The girl had recently discovered the noisy critters, and had spent the last two days immitating them while hunting for them all over the grassy yard.

"Do ya want Pappa ta get ya some crickets?"

She looked up and nodded excitedly.

"Then tell Pappa yer name: Victoria. What's yer name? Vic-to-ri-a."

"Ee'a!" She giggled. "Keekee Pappa!"

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed. "Pappa'll find ya some keekees."

He hated the way she called herself Ee'a. Sure, she might be simply saying the final sounds of 'Victoria', but it was too close to 'Lilia' for his taste, and you couldn't forget most people called the child by her first name, not her second. Which should be the first!

"I'm going to prepare lunch." At those words, Creed looked up at Isabel, who had a determined expression on her face. "But first: I'm _sorry_. I am really, really sorry, ok?"

And she entered the house.

"Keekee keekee!" The girl put a hand on his face to get his attention. "Keekee."

"Take it easy," but he started searching again.

Guess the woman had learnt her lesson, after all. Nevertheless, there was a wave of discomfort and awkwardness at the thought of what she'd do or say next time he woke up with nightmares.

"Kee… kee… kee…" She imitated.

This would never do.

"Com'ere, baby girl. Ya're gonna scare away all 'em keekees. Ya gotta be silent. Look at Pappa. Sh."

She frowned, then repeated 'keekee' loudly. No. Tonight, he'd try and make her understand that, once she spoke, the crickets went silent, and when she didn't, they made noise. She had to learn that you hunt in silence, even if it's only crickets, and the sooner the better.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	63. Creston: Cougar

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

I'm posting this chapter a day early because I won't be able to get online tomorrow. Enjoy!

* * *

 **63\. Creston: Cougar**

Isabel yawned and turned around in bed. The morning sun was shining lazily outside, half hidden by fog-like clouds.

It had snowed for the first time a week ago. She'd woken up on Sunday, hurrying up to get ready for church, and then she'd looked out the window and there was nothing but pristine white all over the land. It had really annoyed her. Creston boasted the warmest winters in the entire country, and then she got stuck with snow in mid-October.

"The nights have been cold," Victor had commented over the phone. "But it don't mean nuthin'. That snow will melt in no time, ya'll see. Is the cold botherin' ya? Are ya feelin' cold or sick or…"

"No, Victor, I'm fine. Is just too early for snow, is all! You know is always too early for snow for me. I'm fine."

It had indeed melted during Sunday, but Monday had woken up freshly white again. And it had snowed on Tuesday morning, too.

"Don't worry," he'd told her on Tuesday. "The forecast is predictin' nice, sunny days fer the weekend, so the cold won't bother ya fer much longer."

"I am _fine_! How many times I have to say I'm not cold and I'm not feeling sick and I'm not wid no problems! I just don't like snow, is all! I. Am. _Fine_."

Because he hadn't wanted to leave on that job. Not with her freshly knocked up, as he had so gently put it. She'd been one week along then. He must have got the job… request? Proposal? She had no idea how it worked, but one moment he'd been fine and then he'd checked his emails and his face had become scary. Though not for her, obviously.

"Everything ok?" She'd asked.

He'd rebuffed her and she'd acted out of impulse with a distraught:

"I saw your face, Victor! Don't hide bad things from me because makes me worried and scared and I'm not in condition to be worried and scared for weeks, imagining bad things!"

Victor's entire expression had changed and he'd hurried to explain it was nothing. Just a job offer that he was not going to take because of her being knocked up.

Embracing a pillow, Isabel sighed. It had felt good, in a way, to know he'd put his job on hold to be by her side. The problem was that he wasn't doing it to be at her side; he was doing it because she could miscarry. Because he thought she was a porcelain doll that could break and fall apart at any turn. Because he thought she was a weakling frail that could not survive without him at her side. Because she could miscarry and bleed to death, as he had said years ago, in Vancouver.

To make it worse, she had actually used her supposed weakness to make him reveal the reason for his sudden bad mood.

What she had done then had been coldly calculated: an over-the-top fit complete with screeching accusations and tears. The whole show! Carefully blamed on her pregnant hormones, of course.

For once, she had clearly seen worry and concern on the man's face. Even helplessness! Though it must have been over his unborn son. He had always been obsessed with anything that could harm his unborn child, during her first pregnancy.

When Victor had finally tried to sooth her hysterics with a promise of taking the damned job only because she was on her first week, she'd cried of actual relief. Or regret, maybe. She had once more used her pregnant weakness as a way to force his hand, after all. How would he see her as a strong woman when she used weakness as a weapon?

A couple of birds started a discussion next to the window and Isabel forced herself up. The window was open and the cold was seeping into the room. What was the man's obsession with open windows? Wrapping herself in the duvet, she got off the bed and closed the window, switched on the heating.

Getting ready to have a shower, Isabel looked at her naked body, her breasts. Grandma Lilia had always said the faintings and morning sickness of the films were ridiculous. Most women go through a pregnancy without any of those.

"Women were stonger in your time, Grandma," she'd tell her.

"Nonsense!" The old woman would grumble. "It's the breasts that tell you everything. Not the sensitivity; that can be anything. It's the nipples!"

And the old woman would explain all the signs. If it were summer, she might actually open her shirt and show on her own body which signs to look for, how they change if the breasts are small or large, if the nipples have this or that characteristic.

"Unless, of course, you get with child while still breastfeeding."

At 21 months old, Lilia didn't nurse in the evening anymore. Now she wanted to nibble herself to sleep, whether it was nipples, cookies or fingers. But when she woke up during the night, often at three or four in the morning, she still asked for 'eetee', a mangled form of the Portuguese 'leitinho', or 'milky'.

Grandma Lilia's sermons meant Isabel knew her milk must be about to dry up. It wasn't simply because her baby girl only nursed at night – and not every night – there were also the changes she felt in her breasts. And in the nipples. Their appearance was changing too, exactly as described all those years ago.

If this second attempt at another child ended in miscarriage… And she couldn't stop thinking about Pru and her beloved Nate. They had moved in together on the exact same day Victor had arrived. Isabel had heard it from Leslie, since Adela had enlisted Fred to help with the move and he'd dragged his father along.

"I'm fixing some fall salads to replenish their strength," Leslie had told her shortly before lunch, a couple of hours before Victor's arrival from that job he hadn't wanted to take.

The woman had gone up to knock on her neighbour's door and ask if she had some of that sour cherry liquor.

"Not for Pru, obviously, but the men will enjoy a naughty pudding. My Patrick loves it!"

Not for Pru, obviously. Pru who was five months pregnant. A boy, apparently. Lyn had had a boy a year ago, shortly after the Kredall's arrival in Creston. Now Pru was set to have a boy, too. Resentment gnawed inside Isabel's heart that Adela would end up also having a boy, soon enough, and that she, who longed for a son so desperately, would watch their boys be born without having one for herself. The three chicks, as Victor called them, with three perfect baby boys.

And Isabel?

"Stop it!" Isabel nearly growled aloud, switching off the water. "You need to go down and have some breakfast before Victor starts whining you're starving his son to death."

Isabel wrapped herself in the towel and sighed of frustration. Over the last week, Lilia's few nigthly nursings had drained her strength.

"Feeling tired for no reason, now that's a bigger sign than all the fainting and vomiting in the world!" Grandma Lilia used to say.

If only feeling exhausted for no reason could mean a successful pregnancy.

Isabel felt the exhaustion weigh her, but fought it with swift movements as she got dressed. She must rally her non-existant strength and look happy for Victor. She must stop using her weakness. He had to see her as strong, as capable of facing any pile of fuming shit and getting over it.

She brushed her hair with irritation and made up her mind. Pregnant or not, she was getting back to the self-defense classes. Victor hadn't touched the topic since she'd started her fertile period. Obviously, he must think any type of training could cause her to miscarry. As if that was the culprit!

No. She was going to go down, eat something and ask him to vacate the gym so she could train a bit on the punching bag. Besides, there were a lot of easy self-defense moves – mostly escaping a grabbed wrist or arm – that she could practice without any worry. If she could get fully competent on the dozen moves he'd taught her over the last year, he might stop thinking of her as a delicate frail.

In the last three days since his return, he had been the one to give Lilia her breakfast. Then, he would take her to the playing pen in the den and go into the gym. That had been Isabel's doing. She had nearly had to brainwash him to make him see that, if he was always at the child's side, she'd never learn to be on her own. She wouldn't learn how to play alone and how to be autonomous because there was always a grown up ready to distract her.

"She must learn to distract herself and have fun alone. Otherwise, being alone will forever be boring and alien for her."

It would have been different if there was a little brother around, but since that wouldn't happen any time soon… So now he left her in the den, punched the bag in the gym for five minutes, and headed back to check on her only to find her perfectly happy with her toys.

Isabel left the room and took a deep breath, put on her best smile, forcing the tiredness into the background.

"Look lively," she told herself as she went down the stairs.

Weird, though. Victor must have taken Lilia to the gym with him, otherwise Isabel would have already heard the girl babbling to her plushies. Or calling out to Mamma. As she got to the end of the stairs, she looked to the left, expecting to see the child's pen empty. That man was worse than a hen mother! Instead she saw a giant cat.

"VEETOHR!" She yelled automatically as she ran into the room, the animal's piercing eyes training on her.

She didn't even know what exactly that animal was supposed to be! It looked like this gigantic siamese cat and… Would it hiss and claw like an aggressive stray cat or get spooked and run away?

"OUT," she yelled in instinctive Portuguese, her hand grabbing the only weapon in her reach: a lousy blanket!

The animal hissed and hunkered slightly as Isabel finally placed herself between the predator and her baby girl. It showed small sharp fangs, but Isabel had seen enough cats and dogs to know that size means nothing when an animal decides to attack. Perhaps it was no weapon, but she whipped the folded blanket at its snout. The hiss became a snarl and it made a movement she had no words to describe, there was no need: it was the movement of a cat getting ready to jump its prey. Livid, Isabel decided her only option was to face the charge and clamp the blanket hard over its snout, maybe smother it. She'd only have to endure the claws shredding her arms for a few min…

It jumped! And got smashed to the ground, Victor's claws piercing through its neck.

"Are you ok? Nesi! Are you feelin' ok?"

Ok? _Ok_?!

"What the fuck is this!" She yelled in Portuguese, livid despite the relief. "What the fuck is that, man of God!"

And how… how… She looked at the window and she could have… God!

"You left that fucking window open?!"

Of course he had! He left windows open everywhere in the house! Was he afraid the house would run out of air?

"Calm down," he snarled. "Get Victoria!"

Isabel turned back to find her baby girl perfectly immobile, seating on the ground with a fabric doll forgotten in her hands, her eyes wide and attentive. She stood so still that Isabel couldn't even see her little chest heaving with each breath. She picked her up and the girl silently embraced her neck. In the meantime, Victor took the animal outside.

She took deep breaths to calm herself – she was not going to scream at the man with her baby in her arms no matter how much she felt the need to scream out the pressure in her chest. Despite the crispy cold of the morning, Isabel followed Victor outside, over to the cabin behind the well manicured yard.

"What hell kind of animal is that," she insisted in Portuguese.

"It's a cougar," he grumbled.

It finally dawned at her. A wild animal. She'd had a wild animal inside the house. A _big_ wild animal. She felt dizzy.

"I thought… I thought wild animals didn't come near the houses."

Victor breathed out forcefully and straightened up, crouched by the animal's dead body. She realised he had begun skinning it.

"Snow came in early this year. Weaker cougars, either young or old, sometimes get hungry an' take risks."

What? Just… what?!

"Are you telling me… Are you telling me this is normal, animals breaking into a house?"

"It ain't common, but it happens."

She wasn't dizzy; she was… it was as if someone had pulled a rug grom under her feet.

"You brought me and our child to a place where it's normal for wild animals to come inside the house and eat people?!"

She was so mad she could barely wheez the words out.

"Ya're blowin' this outta proportion," the man snarled. "It ain't common, but it happens. We are living in bear country, ya know? Wild animals leave next to us. And it's only natural there's gonna be some run-ins every now an' again."

She was reeling. She couldn't even think straight. First it was giant wild cats, and now it was bears?

"Bear country? You mean, bears can come into my house too?"

What was next, wolves?

"Cut it out! It's even less likely fer a bear t'show up at anyone's door. Ya're frightenin' Victoria fer no reason."

God, she couldn't even see right!

"I'm frightening her? Me? Not that damned cougar? Are you sure?"

"That's enough, woman! The cougar's dead, there ain't no bears gonna come crashin' in, and everything's fine. Get over it!"

And to think he had taken her out of Portugal, a place where no wild animal was big enough to threaten anyone, and had taken her to a so-called safe place where animals were expected to try and kill people when they were hungry!

Isabel stormed back into the house, her daughter tight in her arms, and locked every single window in the house. Every single one of them!

* * *

Creed was snarling as he finished skinning the damned animal with ridiculously trembling hands. Damn it all to hell!

He'd had his coffee in the kitchen yard, enjoying the crispy dawn, and he hadn't smelled a single sign of any animal anywhere! How had the damned cougar entered the house like that?

He threw the skin to the side and grabbed the body, took it up into the woods behind the house to… He'd forgotten a shovel. Cursing, he went back to the cabin, grabbed a shovel and once more hiked up the hill, found a good spot to bury the carcass. It would only call more predators, otherwise.

No way was he leaving his baby girl unattended again, it made no nevermind whether it was inside the house or not. Sure, Isabel was right that Victoria needed to learn to enjoy herself without chaperones, but… It wasn't safe. It simply wasn't safe!

Once the animal was buried, he howled some of the pent up tension. As the sound reverberated through the trees, he decided he was done with playing the civilised asshole. He would start roaming his territory regularly, particularly at sunset and sunrise, to make sure every predator in the area knew better than to get too close. The woman was making him soft, her sweet adoration tricking him into negligence.

The decision soothed the pressure inside him, more than the howling, and he returned home more easily. The bloodied skin was attracting flies, though.

Why had he started skinning the blasted animal instead of getting rid of it all? There was no point going back now, so he finished the task and fixed the pelt before going back to the house.

As he entered, he knew the windows were all closed. The air inside felt confined, almost stiffling. Taking a deep breath, he got ready to face Isabel's recrimination and smother it once and for all. This was bear country, damn it! Would she rather live in the middle of a city?

He went through the den and stopped at the kitchen door.

Victoria was sitting on her high chair, hitting everywhere she could reach with a little mallet, and Isabel looked at him with fiery eyes. The lazy prostration of the last three days was nowhere to be seen.

"You have something arranged for today?" She said it in frozen English, but at least she was calmer.

"No."

"Good. We are going shopping." He frowned. "Hunting riffles. And yes, plural. I want riffles wid de… de thing… telescope, to see animals in de distance. And after I have my riffles, you are going to teach me _properly_ how to identify every sign, not just footprints, every little sign of predators around dis house."

He wasn't sure he understood where she was going with this. Was she planning to hunt every animal in the area that could ever pose a danger?

"What the hell d'ya think ya're gonna do?"

"Is not _I_ , Victor; is _we_. When you are in de house, you can identify all animals and kill everything dat is dangerous, but when I'm alone… I can't live wid a riffle in my back day and night, can I? De strategy here is prevention. You start check de area regularly to see footprints and oder signs of predators, and when you find some, you hunt de animals and kill dem. And when you leave in a job, I check de area, and I hunt and kill every predator dat enters our lands. Is dat simple."

Creed held her determined gaze in silence.

It was a sensible approach; he couldn't say it wasn't.

"Why riffles, plural?"

She breathed out and crossed her arms.

"Guns are like everything. I'm certain are lots of riffles made specific for dis animal, or dat weader, or dat whatever. I want an arsenal in dis house dat I can use for everything specific I may need. Riffles for cougars, for bears, for wolfs, foxes… people. Riffles for everything! And I want dat I have easy access but dat Lilia can't play wid. You are de expert, so you organise dat, but make it, and make it fast. No oder animal is going to try and eat my daughter."

He nodded.

"Tomorrow," he said. "There's a riffle range near Kitchener, so I'll check what ya need ta practice yer shootin' there. 'Sides, ya ain't gonna go out inta the woods an' start huntin' blindly. Ya gotta buy licenses ta kill animals legally. We ain't so far into the woods that we can get away with it without no one noticin'. It's one thing fer me ta hunt with my claws only; it's another completely different ta use a riffle. Ya need a huntin' permit."

She made an annoyed grimace but nodded.

"I'll check what it takes ta get ya a proper huntin' permit and what not today."

It occurred to him he hadn't thought of getting a hunting permit for himself as he hadn't planned to do any human hunting, but he couldn't very well get his wife a permit and not one for himself, could he?

More importantly, though, he would have to look online for the best riffles for women, though he wasn't sure how sturdy and actually efficient those were. He had this idea that lady stuff was more for show than efficiency, but Isabel's small statute and frailty gave him the feeling that proper riffles would never be a good fit. That one time he'd taken her hunting, back in his dry cabin, she'd had trouble with the correct holding of the riffle precisely because of her short arms.

Maybe there were riffles for teens… but wouldn't those be deemed beginners and get lousy models too? He'd have to investigate.

"Victor?" He looked at her. "Gun or no gun, you start teaching me to read signs of animals today, ok? You teached me de footprints of deer and rabbits and little things, but you didn't teach me nothing of dangerous aninals. Dis can't wait."

"Put on a coat," he told her. "And we'll start immediately."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	64. Creston: Worries

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **64\. Creston: Worries**

Creed left another ball hanging in front of the pocket and, once more, didn't care shit. He took a sip from his beer, putting the cue on a nearby table and not even noticing who was playing now, then breathed carefully out. He was trying his best not to phone Isabel again, but the woman was on the sixth week. Half-way through the first trimester. If she could hold out those twelve weeks, she'd take it to the end, he was sure, but her first pregnancy, back in January, had only lasted eight weeks. It was not likely the second pregnancy would fare better.

He kept telling himself that his baby girl being born had been a hell of a miracle, with the woman's medical history. Hell of a miracle!

He couldn't stop hoping, though.

Fearing.

He took out the phone and checked there were no messages. The only reason he'd gone to the Track Bar with the guys was because Isabel had promised to text if she as much as felt indisposed.

As much as felt an itch!

 _Are you feeling ok_ , he couldn't stop himself from texting.

She had promised to keep the notifications as loud as the phone allowed so she'd answer him immediately.

 _sim mas com sono_

He felt relieved at the yes in the beginning of the message, but that comment that she felt sleepy… Stop it, and he barely held back a growl. Sleepiness is not a sign of miscarriage. It was stupid to take normal signs of pregnancy as signs of problems.

 _you should go to bed_

"Wake up, eh," Don handed him a cue. "It's your turn."

He looked up from the phone with an aggravated frown and nearly said that wasn't his cue, as his was on the table beside him, only it was his, obviously. Don had picked it up. He grabbed the thing with barely restrained irritation and hit a random ball, not even looking where it had gone, since his phone had just buzzed with an incoming text.

 _bebe um wisky por mim_

He grinned.

 _you dont drink whisky_

It wasn't the first time she'd told him to drink for her. He waited anxiously for the answer she'd given him last time: she could tell him to drink some homemade Portuguese wine brandy for him, but since Canadian shitty drinking holes didn't have not even the watered down commercial version, he would be forever stuck drinking a large glass of whisky for her.

The moment her expected text came in, he shot his answer:

 _Im gonna get you some real bootleg Canadian whisky one of these days and you wont ever ask for that Portuguese crap_ _again_

"Victor!"

He looked up at Colin Ellis, but looked down immediately as the phone buzzed in his hands.

 _promessas promessas_

"Look, if you don't want to play, just say so, eh?"

The growl rumbling quietly in the back of his throat, Creed grabbed his cue and shot a ball without even putting the phone away.

 _you want a promise? Im gonna ask the guys where I can find some real material right now_

 _:o bootleg não é ilegal?_ she wrote. _vais perguntar ao don?_

This was getting annoying, texting in the noisy bar without a chance to relax to the sound of her voice. He asked Nelson Holman for a glass of whisky and called Isabel.

"Whatchya doin'," he asked, aware his voice was coming off low and soft… but only so the other guys wouldn't listen in.

"Estou a preguiçar na cama," and he could hear the smile in her voice.

"Ya're _what_?"

That word had sounded like 'preguiça', which is 'laziness', but it was also very close to 'espreguiçar', to stretch. She giggled and the cheerful sound almost made him believe those six weeks would indeed stretch to the necessary twelve, and then to forty.

"I'm being lazy," she explained.

Ok: 'preguiçar', 'being lazy'. Got it.

"How's about ya get some sleep, instead," he frowned to make his voice sound purposefully gruff, which made Isabel laugh on the other side.

The cue breaking against his back was so unexpected, he barely even felt anger at the sudden attack. Benny's voice yelling 'fuck off', though, made him react instinctively. He turned around, his perifereal vision acknowledging Lawson and Harland coming over to check if he was ok (as if a cue could do him any harm!), and grabbed the old man by the neck. He'd had enough of the asshole!

"Victor!"

"Fuck, Kredall! Let go!"

"Vic, stop it!"

The never before used nickname distracted him just a second, enough for him to hear Don Sherman's meaningful 'you can't mess up'.

True. He couldn't mess up. Almost regretfully, he softened his hold on the old man's neck, who was still breathing – which in itself was proof he hadn't really gone berserk. Not even close!

"Outside."

He din't offer resistance, not really, but it still took both Don and Colin to drag him outside and, while Don was on the thin side, Colin was both wide and tall, standing an inch below Creed.

"Fuck, you almost killed Benny, man!" Colin snapped once they were a few feet away from the Track Bar door. "I know he started it, but… Fuck! You nearly killed him!"

"Shut up," Creed managed. "I didn't press that hard."

He'd be very much dead if he had.

"Are you stupid?" Don hissed. "You almost strangled him! And he has a heart condition!"

He shrugged, turned his back on the two assholes. So he'd pressed hard enough to cut off the air supply for a few seconds, so what? If he'd actually put any type of strength into it, he'd have snapped the old man's neck like a twig!

"Kredall!"

"What?" The three men snapped at Lawson, coming out of the bar.

"Your phone."

Creed's heart stopped. He'd been on the phone with Isabel. She must have realised something was wrong and would be getting worried sick! He quickly got the phone off the kid's hands.

"Hey, ya're ok? Are ya feelin' ok?"

* * *

Don Sherman had felt it before, the irresistible impulse to kill someone. He hadn't felt it himself, though, only on others. Usually, it was a desperate, wordless feeling – bred from anger or powerlessness – but it yelled 'I'll kill them' as clearly as if a primary school teacher were spelling it for the children to write. Tonight, he'd felt something completely different: naturality. It had been bred from a degree of weariness, and the strength of that natural, even banal, feeling was far from a desperate desire. It was staunchly matter-of-fact. 'I've had enough and you're dead'.

It had frozen Don to his core. Fortunately, he knew the man was a wolf hiding under the skin of a sheep for the sake of his family. He knew. He'd only had to remind him.

"Yeah, it's all good," Victor Creed-Kredall said anxiously on the phone, "just relax an' get some sleep."

Don glanced at Colin Ellis, who frowned a 'what the fuck is going on here' kind of expression.

"I'll be back in five minutes. Yeah. See ya."

Victor breathed out with violence, a slight growlish sound reverberating underneath it, then turned around. His eyes were icy and, once more, Don got that feeling of casual violence: you're both dead, if I want it. He should defuse the…

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Kredall?"

"He's worried about his wife," Don cut in before the anger boiling in the man could burst. "And you would probably react in the exact same way if someone broke a cue on your back for no reason whatsoever."

Senses working to the utmost out of pure adrenaline, Don felt the tension inside Kredall ease slightly.

"Bullshit!"

"Why don't I break a blasted cue on your back and we'll see how you do react, eh?"

Not giving Colin time to keep on venting, Don turned to Victor and decided to put him in his place. As gently as possibly. The man didn't feel ready to kill anymore – and the ease of that desire still unnerved Don – but there was still pulsating violence underneath his skin. Worry, too.

"I know you're worried, Vic, but you have to keep your temper in check. Blowing up isn't going to help your family in any way, is it?"

Hoping the warning had reached home, Don turned to Colin again.

"And cut him some slack, will you? You know his wife lost a baby back in the spring," Don felt the anger spike murderously but persevered. "Amber told me she's pregnant again. Are you going to tell me he doesn't have a reason to be on edge? Especially as there's always the risk of… you know."

Don looked at Victor and could feel his anger spreading through the cold November night in barely restrained pulses. Still, the man showed no inclination to act on his feelings. Good.

"How about we go back inside and drink a beer to finish cooling off?"

Though he knew what Victor was going to say:

"I gotta go. I don't wanna leave Isabel alone fer too long."

"Ok," and Don couldn't say he wasn't happy with the idea. "Drive carefully."

Neither he nor Colin entered the bar, though. In silence, they watched Victor's car take off, the cold slowly sinking into their bones. Don's, at least. Colin usually acted as if he couldn't feel cold.

"He was going to kill Benny," Colin said quietly.

Yes… but no.

"I got the feeling that if he had wanted to kill him, he would have."

"Is that why you took his side so doggedly? You thought he was going to… what, get a shotgun and go on a bloody spree if someone grilled him for being an asshole?"

No. But Colin didn't have to know the details. He was a good guy, steadfast and loyal to his friends. Don would have liked to feel more at ease with him. His mutant powers had long told him he could trust the towering man. Nevertheless, Don couldn't feel the connection to Colin Ellis that he felt to Victor Kredall. Was it because he wasn't a mutant?

"First of all, Benny had no business attacking anyone. If he'd done that to Miles Hilkins, he might actually be on his way to the morgue."

Miles Hilkins was one of the people that occasionally projected murderous intentions, hot and bitter. Such a provocation would have made him lose his head – especially if he'd had one too many beers. Miles's killing urges were sometimes like a barely contained blind bear that simply wants to destroy everything around him; Kredall's had been… he wasn't sure yet. He had to think it over. One thing Don knew for sure, though.

"Don't spread it about," as if Colin was one to do so, "but he's on edge with his wife's pregnancy. She has this medical condition and is likely to miscarry again. Amber mentioned that their kid is kind of a miracle. No one expected the pregnancy to go to the end."

Silence.

"You saw him inside. He wasn't his usual self not even for five minutes."

Victor Kredall was always aware of everything around him. Always. Tonight, though…

"I don't know how far along she is, but from what Amber said, they must both be expecting a miscarriage any time."

"That kind of pressure doesn't go well with a short temper," Colin said quietly.

"He does have a short temper," Don promptly agreed.

"Maybe it's a good thing he didn't want to join the Search And Rescue."

Quite the opposite! Don's every instinct – and he meant both his human and his mutant ones – told him that it was essential to get Kredall in the group. It would provide him with a much needed positive influence, not to mention a connection to hardened local men that Kredall could respect. Don was much too aware he despised most people in town. Either despised or dismissed. With the local SAR, Kredall's skills – whatever they were – would be respected and appreciated. Besides, there's something addictive about facing nature in a race against time, and saving lost hikers from death was even more compelling. Victor had already mentioned twice he was not going to go on pansy certification courses that couldn't teach him not even one tenth of what he already knew, so Don had eased off, but he hadn't given up, especially as there was always that twinkling aggravation inside the man that told Don he wanted to join.

"We already have our hands full with Vinny. We don't need any more lose cannons."

"Has he messed up recently?" Don asked, hoping to veer the conversation away from Victor.

"No, but he's such a dumb head. It's as if he can't say two words without throwing a provocation at someone."

Don shrugged.

"He's your most skilled climber."

"I know. Blasted daredevil, too. We'll have to save his ass one of these days. How can someone follow every rule to a T during a rescue, and then take off on a climb in the evening, alone, no warning to no one, nothing! And then he brags about it!"

"At least his deathwish doesn't come up during rescues."

"Has better not!"

"I haven't seen him in the bar lately."

Colin shrugged. Vinny Spalding was renowned for being uncapable of getting drunk. He had the highest alcohol resistance Don had ever seen on anyone, and he was only too happy to take advantage of it by drinking as much as he could on a nightly basis. Daily too, according to some people.

"I think that new girlfriend of his must be setting him to rights."

If Colin was right, then the relationship wasn't going to last.

"I should probably head back. It's getting late."

Amber always got nervous when he stayed out late at night, especially if she knew he wasn't working.

Don entered briefly to check on Benny and tell him off for assaulting people.

"Of course he was phoning his wife," he hissed at the old stubborn man. "She's pregnant and he's worried about her."

"That wasn't worry I heard!"

Frustrated, Don had left and got in the car, hurried home. Willow was sleeping safely. Amber opened a sleepy eye and dozed off again.

Don lay in bed and gazed up at the darkened celing.

Victor Kredall was dangerous. He'd known it from the first second he'd seen the man. He was deadly.

Tonight, he had felt the danger acutely: if the man were to really lose his temper and forget he needed to blend in for his family sake…

And, yet, Don felt that connection to him. That familiarity – half easy, half uneasy – that he couldn't feel with Colin. Why? It wasn't simply because they were both mutants; he refused to accept that possibility.

Victor Kredall was a wolf in sheep's skin.

And Don? What was he?

The whole thing worried him.

Don had known he wasn't like the other kids from a tender age, having been born a mutant, even if he didn't know what that was at the time. Fortunately, his mutation had been easy to conceal, but…

Amber turned in her sleep and Don glanced at her, ran a hand gently over her back.

Victor either despised or dismissed most people around him. Don had felt the same way for his school colleagues. For most of his work colleagues, too. Also for quite a few of his fellow cadets, at the Training Academy. He'd learnt to get over that habit of his, though. Now he simply… he simply…

Don frowned at the ceiling. He thought of most people around him as naïve, short-sighted and… he hesitated, much too used to using polite words, but ended up being honest to himself. Most people around him were simply dumb.

One doesn't have to despise dumb people, though. They exist and they have a right to keep on existing in peace.

Was that why Don felt a connection to the man? Because if he were to say 'I'm surrounded by assholes and I'm fed up with the lot', Kredall – unlike most anyone he had ever known – would understand.

He kept on gazing at the ceiling.

Don had once mocked colleagues for their stupidity. He'd done so with friends he despised as much as the people he'd mocked. But he'd grown up. He'd learnt to respect even the dumbest airheads.

It was tiresome work, though.

If he were to have a drink with Colin and vent about the stupidity he had to deal with on a daily basis, Colin would be shocked. The guy was all about seeing the best in every soul.

Not so Kredall.

But was it worth it, dealing with a possible murderer?

Getting on with him.

Defending him.

Helping him.

He recalled the acute worry – fear, even – that the man had been projecting throughout the evening.

If he was a mercenary, as Don believed he was, he was used to killing. That could explain the naturality of the killing urge. And Benny had just attacked him. Anyone with a short temper would strike back.

Nevertheless, the man's every fiber was focused on his wife and child. He longed for a second kid almost desperately! Tonight hadn't been the first time Don had felt his intense yearning. Or his repressed pain. The stronger those feelings, the more he forgot to hide them.

Maybe all he needed really was to join SAR and meet capable men and women he could respect.

Don would simply have to have a serious talk with Benny and make sure he didn't pester the man. The old man could be incredibly unreasonable and obsessive. Sure, Victor sounded like a controlling jerk on the phone. It was absolutely and undeniably true. However, Don had grown up amidst domestic abuse. Isabel projected nothing of what he'd learnt to expect from a woman fettered to a toxic relationship. Nothing!

And he'd also have a word with Victor and tell him to keep better control over his temper.

* * *

Isabel had been awake when Victor had arrived. She wasn't sure what had happened at the bar. One moment he'd been teasing her, and the next all she could hear was men calling Victor, telling him to stop. She had gotten out of bed and had almost ran to the car to drive to the bar. But what for? And she couldn't leave her daughter alone, anyway. So she'd remained on the phone, calling for Victor, asking what is happening.

Someone had answered eventually. Lawson Becker.

"Give de phone to Victor," she'd told him. "Give him de phone _now_! Please."

He hadn't told her anything. Had just thrown some mellow everything's fine, so relax and get some sleep. As if she could!

He had looked so tired when he'd finally got back. She'd offered to make him a snack, but he'd been pissed that she was still up so they'd gone to bed. Not that any of them had fallen asleep. Isabel had no idea what time it was, but it had to be very late. He'd held her from behind for some time, but then he'd let go and now was, from what she could tell, lying on his back.

Could it be because of the baby? On the one hand, she wanted to believe it was. She wanted to believe that he wanted that second child as much as she did. Wishful thinking was dangerous, though. It was far more likely that he was bored and restless. He refused to leave on a job while she was pregnant, in case she started miscarrying, so he might even be hoping for her body to reject the baby as soon as possible so he could go back to his normal life.

The thought brought tears to her eyes, but she had to force herself to see the man for what he was. He wanted a competent woman raising his child, one who was also a skilled housekeeper and willing fucktoy. She must never forget that.

And yet she kept pretending she could change him. Kept telling herself he could come to actually see her as a trusted friend. Someone he could count on when he felt down, or worried, or fearful. Someone who…

Isabel turned sharply around the moment she felt Victor sit up.

"Sleep," he told her in a deep low rumble. "It's late."

He looked tormented. What had happened at the bar? Without thinking, she grabbed his arm.

"What?"

Could that be worry for her as a person, and not simply for the physical well being of his child's mother? Could it be for their unborn child? She almost fancied there was fear alongside the undeniable worry.

"Isabel, what is it?"

Holding back words that might start her crying, Isabel embraced him. It was always him who embraced her – unless it was sex – but she wanted, she needed to hold him and comfort him out of that distress.

"Uh… Nesi? Are ya feelin' ok?"

But he'd push her away. Call her a useless cunt. She couldn't bear for that to happen again. She must say something. Something that… that…

"Inês! Are ya…?"

"Don't go," she whispered.

What a stupid thing to say! Act even more needy and clingy, won't you!

"Look at me!"

But his hand was almost gentle as it cupped her cheek and forced her to obey.

"Why are you afraid," he said in a low voice, not a bit of harshness. Thank God.

"I don't want be alone," she answered.

He hesitated.

"I'm just gonna go fer a run. I'll be back in no time."

Isabel had it on the tip of her tongue: I don't feel well enough to be on my own. To once more use the weakling frail card of her pregnancy, perhaps about to be lost. She opened her lips to say it – anything to keep him there!

"Are ya feelin' any pain? Any… discomfort?"

A disguting frail. A little porcelain doll about the break at every turn and in constant need of care and controlling attention.

"Isabel, answer me! Are ya feelin'…"

"No," she let go of him, shaking her head. "No, I was just… is a bit cold, isn't?"

"Com'ere," and he embraced her hard, kissed her neck, her shoulder. "Ya're safe, mi Nesita. I promise ya. Everything's just fine."

But this was not what she wanted! She wanted to be the one embracing, comforting, soothing.

"I'm gonna get ya another blanket, ok?"

She let him get it and put it over the bed covers. She let him tuck her in like a helpless child.

"There. Ya get some sleep now, ya hear? I'm gonna take my phone with me, so ya can call me if ya don't feel right. I won't go far. Ok?"

She nodded.

In the empty room, she let the tears roll silently down her face. The pressure kept mounting: her baby girl growing up, about to stop nursing altogether; this pregnancy about to fail; and Victor, still and forever incapable of letting her in. If there was nothing she could do to change the first two situations, there was something she could do to win him over. There must be!

She'd find a way to win his trust sooner or later.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	65. Creston: I know you ain't a Frail!

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **65\. Creston: I know you ain't a Frail!**

Creed had been so sure that miscarriages were quietly simple events, that the second one found him completely unprepared: Isabel had woken up at six in the morning with cramps, painful ones, and had then started bleeding as if she wanted to get rid of every ounce of the liquid inside her. For a moment he had thought she was going to bleed to death. Actually, he thought that for the forty-five harrowing minutes he spent waiting in the hospital with Victoria in his arms.

And there was nothing he could do to prevent it! _Nothing_!

He sat there in shock, listening to a baby crying nearby and unable to comprehend how he'd gotten to that point: Isabel bleeding to death and… and Victoria would be motherless and how the hell could he ever raise her all by himself in the middle of an actual community? He couldn't! Not without Isabel. He'd have to take her to his dry cabin and raise her there, alone, without Isabel, without… Raise her like a little hermit who would never be able to understand how people function in society and, therefore, would never be safe around people because she'd be naïve and trust their smiles and pretty words and… he'd teach her. He'd teach her how to rip them all apart but… she'd become a teenager, and teenagers are naturally rebellious little things who go against their parents and learn by their own mistakes. And when she became a teenager, she'd reject him and… and he'd be alone, again. No sweet Nesi, no Lil' Devil. No nothing. He'd lose everything.

He couldn't.

It couldn't.

Why had he agreed to a second child? Why had he wanted a second one? He had everything, right now! A woman and a precious child all of his own. Why had he risked it all away? Why? Was he stupid? He'd just lost his Nesi because of his own stupidity! Because of…

"You can see her now, Mr Kredall."

He jumped in the seat at the voice of the nurse. He hadn't even noticed her approach and her words didn't make sense.

"What?"

"You can see your wife, now," she repeated.

"She's alive?"

"Oh," and the woman looked distressed. "No, she's fine! I'm so sorry! Somebody should have… Your wife is fine, Mr Kredall. She was never in any danger at all! We've given her some painkillers and the bleeding is under control. Come with me. I'll show you to her room."

He felt dizzy as he followed the nurse. He felt so relieved to see Isabel alive, that he stopped at the door, unable to say a word. The woman was pale but her jaws were set with cold determination, waiting for the nurse to close the door.

"We panicked too early," she said stiffly in Portuguese. "What Angie said about the bleeding being like a heavy period? Well, she should have said double and triple a heavy period is normal."

She licked her dry lips and swallowed hard. It gave him the feeling she might be about to cry. Remembering how she'd wanted him away during the other miscarriage so he couldn't witness her waterworks, Creed cleared his throat.

"D'ya want me ta stay outside?"

She looked at the window and blinked quickly, clenched her jaws more tightly.

"I want to go home," she said with a shivering voice. "I'm not doing anything here. I shouldn't have come. I…"

"I'm gonna tell the doc I'm takin' ya home," he said, leaving the room immediately.

* * *

By the time they'd gotten back, shortly before lunch, Isabel was once more fighting to hide the pain.

"I'm fine," she'd grunted angrily. "Just help me up the stairs and get lunch from Lena."

Once more, he'd obeyed, but he had first made sure she had her phone close by. Then he'd driven off, wandered through some dirt roads till he was in the middle of nowhere.

He sat in the car through the short remainder of that cold November morning, looking ahead and seeing nothing.

Isabel could have died. Only, no, she couldn't have. She had never been in danger, the nurse had said. The hospital gynecologist, Dr Gage, had explained that the real danger would come from an infection, but it wasn't likely to happen. Yes, prolonged heavy bleeding could be dangerous too, but that wouldn't be expected to happen in such an early miscarriage.

"Every case is a case," Dr Gage had said. "The same woman can have light bleeding and almost no pain in one miscarriage, in the next one have extreme bleeding and pain, and in a third one have mild pain and bleeding. It all falls within the range of normalcy."

All within the range of normalcy.

Fucking twisted normalcy, if you asked him.

So this was his life, now? A few weeks of false hope undone in pain and blood? Was that the price for a second child? How many more times till Isabel could finally take a pregnancy to the end?

"Pappa, out!"

She startled him out of his thoughts, his Little Devil. He took her out of her baby seat and let her walk around the car all on her own. It brought a half smile to his face. His perfect baby girl. Well, toddler girl. She was no baby, no more. Her alert eyes had gained a level of attention and intention that fascinated him. The way she explored the world around her, eager and sharp. He loved it! And yet he missed her infant days. The way she saw nothing but Mamma and Pappa. The way she existed only because of Mamma and Pappa.

He so wanted to have another baby in his arms! To feel and smell that helpless tenderness, wholy dependent on him. To feel rejuvenated in the sound of that little beating heart. To see in that infant a whole life, a whole…

Creed took a deep breath and walked around the car so as to keep Victoria under watch.

What if Isabel were to give up on trying? The possibility cut him to pieces inside even if a side of him berated him for stupidly risking a perhaps deadly miscarriage. But they weren't deadly. They'd never be deadly, the doctor had said. And he so wanted... but was it worth the risk? There was no risk, damnit! Just some pain. But would Isabel want to go through all that pain? Sure, she'd told him before she wouldn't give up for nothing, but that had been before this painful scare. Even if she had never really been in danger.

"Padah!" Victoria yelled excitedly, clapping. But then she put a hand over her mouth and hissed a loud: "Shah! No no."

Sh, no noise. It was what he'd spent the last two months teaching her: sh, no noise when you hunt.

He could imagine a little clone of the girl doing the same. Two or three, actually. He could see half a dozen of them playing with each other, laughing delightedly as they played catch or tumbled one over the other. Very much the way Lil' Victoria played with the Harper and Clemens boys.

The thought that every damned try would end in blood… Damn, it made his eyes burn.

A woman that was worth his time, and she had that blasted alien blood!

"Pappa, 'un! 'Un!"

He nodded.

"Yeah. Let's get lunch."

* * *

Creed was in the yard, watching as Victoria ran delightedly after the large beach ball he'd tied to a post. The ball bounced and spiraled every time the girl hit it, sometimes causing her to fall down, but she never grew tired of running in circles despite the cold.

As for him, he was still digesting this second miscarriage.

Isabel hadn't had anything for lunch, saying she felt nauseated. Instead she had simply asked for some warm sweetened water and had spent the last hours either in bed or on the toilet. He had found he wasn't much hungry, either.

There was a weird pressure inside his chest, even if it felt empty. Painfully empty. How much emptier mustn't the woman feel, though!

He'd had the chance to talk to Angie Dalton while still at the hospital. She was Isabel's doc, afterall, so he had phoned her and she had chatted to Dr Gage, then she'd given Creed the pills.

"There," she'd told him after spewing the same old condolencies. "At least this should give you both some peace of mind over the next six months."

Yeah, no risk of unexpectedly knocking her up.

"Take her home and make sure she has plenty of peace and quiet, ok?"

Unlike the last time, the weather wasn't very welcoming now. Mt Thompson, behind their house, was already white with snow, but whatever snow had fallen at lower altitudes had mostly disappeared during the day. Especially after those days when it had rained in the afternoon: the rain had…

A noise inside the house caught his attention. He spared a glance at Victoria, still running after the ball, then entered the kitchen. Isabel was in the laundry room. He came closer and realised she was loading the washing machine.

"What the hell are ya doin'?"

She looked up, face pale and grim.

"I'm loading the machine," she said in Portuguese. "There are dirty clothes accumulating and…"

"Ya should be restin'!" He yelled, that blasted pressure in his chest nearly ready to explode. "Ya're havin' a fuckin' miscarriage, woman! Ya could bleed half ta death again!"

"Pappa…"

Damn it! He went back to the kitchen, picked up the child who was opening the door of the yard. The moment he turned around, the girl clinging to his neck, Isabel was standing at the door of the laundry room.

"The scent of all the blood is going to upset Lilia Victoria," she said in Portuguese with cold softness. "Perhaps you…"

"No!" It finally dawned on him that Isabel had done all the housekeeping – including cooking – during the previous miscarriage. "Ya're gonna go upstairs an' get in bed. Right now! Ya ain't movin' a finger ta do nuthin' inside this house till ya're fully recovered."

She closed her fists and stood very still, barely breathing.

"I'm fuckin' tyin' ya t'the bed if I have to, woman."

Two fat tears rolled down her cheeks, but he couldn't care less. She could turn on the worst waterworks of the century, he would tie her down to the bed if that was the only way to keep her put.

"I am _not_ ," she said in a low, hardened voice, "a little porcelaine doll, Victor Creed. The bleeding we thought was excessive was within the bounds of normal. I was never in danger. Never."

"Ya still hav'ta rest, damnit!"

The trail of tears thickened but remained silent.

"I am not a fucking frail, unable to handle a bit of pain," her voice even lower. "I am not a useless piece of shit that can break at the slightest touch."

What?

"And I will not be treated as one, do you understand? I am not a feeble crybaby sissy and you will not treat me as one."

 _What_?!

"You are having a _miscarriage_ , Isabel."

"And _I_ will handle it the way _I_ want. Not you, not the doctors, not anyone. _Me_."

This was surreal.

"You have ta rest ta get yer strength back," he insisted, feeling as if his words were bouncing off that stubborn brain of hers.

"I am not a weak little frail, Victor Creed! Stop treating me like one! I'm not going to break to pieces over a little bleeding and a little pain. I am not going to break from driving all on my own. I am not going to break from facing a fucking cougar. I'm not going to break fr…"

"I KNOW!" Victoria whimpered in his lap and he brought his voice down immediately. "I know ya ain't no frail. I know."

She breathed in deeply, shivering, and choked a bit.

"Then stop treating me…"

"I'm not, damnit!"

How could he make her understand that this wasn't about her being a weak frail, but about being in a weakened condition? It was two completely different things and she was mixing it all up.

"I am perfectly capable of handling this… this. _And_ taking care of the house. I am strong enough to do it without any problems."

"Yer body needs time ta recover," he tried.

Isabel shook her head, though, sniffing once with pale determination. Fuck it all to hell! He'd really have to tie her to the bed. At least till she got some sense into that brain of hers.

"My body can heal just fine without being stuck in a bed like a helpless invalid. Or what do you think? That people without your oh-so-special mutant healing die at the drop of a hat? Get real!"

He hadn't expected that but even as he reeled at the disdain in her voice, it gave him the needed argument.

"I gotta lay down too," he said, still organising his thoughts. "A healin' factor gives me a free pass on a world of abuse, but I still gotta lay low an' let my body mend itself."

For once, her stone countenance seemed unsure.

"That time I called ya… when I got a broken leg and a crushed foot. D'ya remember that?"

She nodded, uncertainly.

"I had ta sit an' wait fer almost five hours fer the bones ta heal. I could have gotten up an' gone on long 'fore that. I could have ignored the pain an' carried on. But ya know what that would have done? It would have caused the bone ta heal wrong, and I'd have had ta break it again an' reset it. It would have made my healin' slower an' less effective. It ain't 'bout bein' weak; it's about bein' smart. It makes no nevermind if I need only four hours and ya need four days or four damned weeks. Ya hav'ta let yer body heal at its own pace ta make sure it mends itself completely. Ta make sure ya'll go back t'yer normal strength."

She didn't move through his monologue, but while before she'd been a royal statue of stubborness, now she looked like a hurt doe, stricken and shaky.

"Nesi," he said with purposeful softness. "Com'ere."

She turned suddenly to the side, shaking her head, saying she had to do the laundry. There was no determination in her voice anymore, though. He took a carefully slow step forward, stretched his hand quietly towards her.

"Think of yer baby girl," he lowered his voice to a whisper, taking another step closer. "She needs ya ta heal completely. She needs ya ta heal as fast as possible."

"But… the house…"

"The house will be fine. Ya'll take care of it all when ya're fully healed."

His hand reached her arm and travelled gently up to her shoulder, mimicking a reassuring massage.

"Remember: the more ya move about, the more slowly ya'll heal. Lyin' down in bed is just the best way ta make sure yer body will do its thing as fast as possible. That's all. Ya have ta lay low ta heal faster, so ya can go back ta takin' care o' Victoria an' the house."

She shivered, even as his arm crossed over her back and pulled her against him, nice and gentle.

"The laundry," she whispered.

"Ya're the strongest woman I've ever met," he praised in his whisper. "Ya can handle anythin', get over everythin'. You ain't no frail, woman. No fuckin' frail. I know that. An' so do you. Ya don't hav'ta prove nuthin'. Com'on, Nesi. Come with me and our Lil' Devil. Let's go up an' make sure ya get yer strength back as soon as possible."

She still looked back, to the laundry she'd been loading into the machine, but she offered next to no resistance. As she lay down in the freshly made bed, though, she mentioned dinner.

"You can't always go to Lena for take-away. It's not right!"

"Then I'll make some steaks," he shrugged.

But Isabel shook her head, tears getting stronger again.

"It's not fair," she almost whimpered in Portuguese.

"Do I look to you like I can't make myself dinner?" He said it roughly, this time, tired of all the drama. "I ain't no baby, woman. I'm perfectly capable o' makin' meals fer the three of us till ya're back on yer feet. You just focus on gettin' better fer yer daughter's sake. The sooner the better! Now quit actin' like a pesky brat!"

The fight abandoned her then, and she sunk into the mattress defeatedly. It was about time! There was no sense of victory, though. Her eyes slid tiredly to the side and he actually felt worried.

"Are ya feelin' any pain?"

She shook her head in a negative.

There wasn't much more to say, so he got up and left. Downstairs, he finished loading the machine but ended up putting too much detergent and the machine had to wash the same load three times to get rid of all the extra foam.

Dinner was doleful. He stil didn't feel much appetite, while Isabel was obviously forcing herself to eat. She had attempted to clear the table, but he'd told her to sit down. He'd thrown everything into the dishwasher and started it. For a moment, Isabel had almost said something.

"What?" He'd grumbled.

She'd sighed.

"Thank you," she shrugged in English, for once. "I mean it. Thank you for helping and… do your best. I will rest and get good as fast as I can so you don't have to do all dis work."

"Good!"

That had made him feel much better, despite her mournful expression. But she was losing a baby. Mourning was to be expected, not stupid stubborness.

The next morning he had realised it's a bad idea to put wooden utensils in the dishwasher. He had already given Victoria her breakfast then gone out to buy some fresh bread – Isabel preferred fresh bread, that much he knew. Then he had taken Isabel a healthy dose of scrambled eggs with the bread and had left some toys in their bedroom so the girl would stick around Mamma while he folded the laundry. He'd seen Isabel doing it lots of times and she had always made folding bedsheets neatly seem so easy. He'd folded bedsheets before, obviously, but he'd never actually bothered to fold them neatly. What for? This time he had actually tried to do it neatly… but had quickly ended up with uneven tightly packed sheets. Who cared anyway?

As he was taking them upstairs, he overheard Victoria fuss over something and Isabel told her off immediately. It froze him.

"Your father is doing his best, Lilia Victoria," she said in Portuguese. "He likes simple eggs barely cooked and that's what he made, and you are not going to make faces at his eggs, are we clear? Nor at the bread. He did not have to do this, and he did not have to go out on purpose to buy bread. He could have gone to a café and brought some sloppy ready-made concoction that would give him much less work, and… If he went to the bother to do this, the least you can do is say 'it's good, Pappa'."

Creed entered the room quietly. Victoria enjoyed stealing food from their plates, and she eagerly accepted everything that they offered. This time, though, she ran away whenever Isabel offered her some of the nearly finished eggs.

The woman's words replayed inside his head for a while, as he decided whether to be pleased with her appreciation for his effort, or to be pissed that she was pretending she liked it. Nevertheless, a little voice pointed out she hadn't really praised his work, just the fact he was willing to do the stuff.

"I've got the bedsheets," he said when she had finished and put the tray aside, knowing she'd jump at the unexpected sound of his voice. "I'm gonna put 'em away so ya won't hav'ta."

Purposefully, he put them in the wrong drawer. Isabel said nothing even though she saw it clearly.

"I didn't fold it the way ya usually do," he commented.

"Is ok. Every person folds de way dey like. Is not worth fight about what is de right way, hun?"

Fair enough.

"Did ya like yer eggs?"

She hesitated. Creed got the feeling she knew full well he was testing her. He'd have preferred to catch her unaware, though.

"Yes," she said slow and clearly, her eyes locked on his. "Because _you_ did dem for _me_. Dey were better dan… eggs of a five-star chef!"

A five-star chef, huh?

"So ya didn't think they were undercooked? I wasn't sure how ya'd prefer 'em."

She cocked her head sideways very slightly.

"If you want make dem different, you can put meat. Bacon and chourizo and… Garlic and onion is healthy too. And is more nutrients. But I don't want be picky."

It annoyed him that she was skirting the point.

"So ya _liked_ the eggs this way. Or _didn't_ you?"

"Victor Creed," she snapped into sudden irritation, "you have like, love and adore. No, I don't adore your eggs, and no, I don't love you eggs. But yes, I _like_ dem. Is everything clear?"

He chewed on it. He could smell no lying, so she could potentially have found them satisfactory even if not tasty. He wasn't satisfied, though, and he was through with beating about the bush.

"Would ya have said so if ya hadn't liked 'em?"

A deep breath.

"You are doing your best, Victor. If is too bad to eat, yes, I say. But if is just I don't like, den no, I don't say. But I also don't lie and say I like. You want know, you ask and I tell you honestly, but I am not going be picky and start wid 'oh, I prefer dis and I prefer dat'. No."

Without waiting for an answer, she pushed the bedclothes away and got up. Again?

"Where the hell d'ya think ya're goin'? Ya gotta stay in bed an' rest!"

"Pelo amor de Deus! I am going to de bathroom, Victor! Give six steps isn't going to kill me! I'm not an invalid! I can stay in bed to heal faster, but I am NOT an invalid!"

Damn, he'd jumped the gun.

"I know…"

"Den stop! I can't do one little thing dat you start immediately say is dangerous and I'm going to get hurt and… ! Stop! I'm not a porcelain doll!"

"I know!"

"I'm not a frail!"

He grabbed her by the arms so she'd listen:

"I know ya ain't no frail. I know!"

But he could see it in her eyes she didn't believe him. He didn't blame her. She might be able to put up with a lot of pain and to recover quickly from a tonne of abuse, but… the truth was he'd worked alongside human women who were far more strong and resilient than Isabel could ever be. Physically, he meant.

She was a little slip of a woman who might pack a strong punch and kick for someone who'd never trained – who rarely ever did so – but who was woefully helpless. Even if she was a good shot with a riffle, if she could throw a knife accurately, it was still like comparing the top speed of a five year old to an adult athlete.

Her real and only upper-hand was her inner strength. He'd rarely seen any woman who would so doggedly go through anything and come up on top. Most of the women who could compare were physically powerful, too, which only made Isabel shine even higher above them all.

"You are the strongest woman I've ever met," he told her, still holding her arms. "I mean it. I wouldn't have kept ya with me if ya weren't as strong as you are."

She didn't have to know he only meant her inner strength, that he did think of her physically as a lil' frail.

* * *

Hi, everyone.

I'd like to first of all thank you all who read and enjoy these tales. Unfortunately, I'm having a big spike of work at the moment so it's difficult to keep up an adequate stock of chapters. Since uploading two chapters a week burns through my stock like a wildfire, I'll be uploading 'Hidden Years' only on Sundays for a month or so. If nothing goes wrong, I'll resume the double week uploads in August.

Thank you once more for all of your support!

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	66. Creston: The Word War

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **66\. Creston: The Word War**

Creed would have to go on a job in a couple of days, so he had taken the morning to check his bike. His mind wasn't fully on the job, though.

He had finally had the chance to say hi to Graham Harvey over a month ago. After spending the entire fall and half the winter stalking the old man, Creed knew he was a silent bitter creature, gnawed by hate to his very core, but too coward to go out and act on that hate. It took alcohol to encourage him to act, and he still did so under wraps.

On the other hand, he had a bad habit of spying on his neighbours, especially the Gabrielsons, whom he sometimes spent twenty and thirty minutes watching through his rifle scope. His northern neighbour, Pierce Kenyon, received similar attention: whenever Graham Harvey headed north, which was daily, he was sure to wade far into the man's lands and shoot at rabbits and squirrels. Anything that moved really. Since Kenyon spent most day at work, up in Erickson's sawmill, he had no idea of the time bomb Grahame represented.

The old man's routine included shooting practice, which explained why nobody much cared when they heard the rifle, Creed included. Because he had checked on the old man right at the beginning. He had noticed his hostility to the world. Unfortunately, that had coincided with the time the old man had hurt his foot and rarely strayed from his house, and Creed hadn't bothered with the old geezer.

It was something the cougar incident had made him realise: he was much too used to overlooking the need for certain precautions because those precautions prevented dangers that posed no danger to him. Never had it occurred to him that a wild animal might actually come too close to his house, for example, much less attack his baby girl. Similarly, until Isabel's report on the old man, it had never occurred to him that an enbittered asshole with a rifle might go crazy and start killing people.

It was stupid, really. Victor Sabretooth Creed should know better than everyone that hate piles up until it goes over a limit, triggering a berserker rage that might, in normal humans, take the shape of a sniper killing spree.

During the fall, Grahame Harvey had sometimes trespassed into Creed's lands. He had never come anywhere near the house, though, which was the only reason Creed hadn't had a chat with him immediately. From the old man's trails, it was clear he wandered in but stopped whenever he came across tracks left by Creed, which were everywhere. The property was small by his standards, so it was easy to cover it regularly.

During December, he had rarely trespassed, which had annoyed Creed. January, though, had finally given him what he wanted.

One freezing morning the old man had gone straight to the Kredall land plot. Patiently, Creed had allowed him to go in as deep as the old man would risk, then he'd jumped him. Literally. He'd grabbed him by his neck and thrown him – with relative gentleness – against some bushes, while getting the rifle off his hands.

"Ya listen ta me, old man: I ain't Kenyon, who never notices ya're huntin' in his land day in, day out. And I sure as hell ain't like the Gabrielsons, who have no idea ya're watchin' 'em through yer rifle scope."

In hindsight, that particular approach might have backfired. Grahame had grabbed his chest as if his heart might have a seizure. Fortunately for Creed, it hadn't.

"Ya ever put a foot inside my lands again, it'll be the end of you. Are we clear?"

Creed cleaned his hands to get the box of brake pads he'd bought at Harveys, a small motorcycle body and repair shop that belonged to Jacob Clemens's father. One thing was sure, Jacob's old man had far more interesting conversations.

Once he finished with the bike, he would head out and go all the way to Grahame Harvey's house, which was little better than an old-fashioned cabin. He wanted to follow the man's tracks and see what his rounds were like in the early spring. After all, the asshole might have taken the warning to heart, but it didn't mean he couldn't be heading into madness and a shooting spree against the clueless neighbors. It was best to keep regular tabs on him.

He had just taken out one of the old brake pads when his Lil' Devil had showed up with Isabel in tow. The woman had been trying to make her understand that Pappa was busy, but Creed had grinned and called her over.

"D'ya wanna help Pappa?"

Of course she did!

"She won't let you finish fix de bike, love!"

But there was time! And Isabel needed to have some of that famous 'mamma time' with the punching bag, anyway. Her punches were much more focused these days, but were far from being as effective as they could. The moment she had left the garage, Creed had left the bike aside and had started teaching his baby girl the basic tools:

"This is a screwdriver."

"Skoodivuh."

"We use it to screw screws."

'Skoo skoos', she said with a focused expression.

"That's it," he smiled. "Screw screws. And here we have a screw. Only it has already been screwed in, so we need to unscrew it first."

He let the girl touch it with her finger while he got another screwdriver.

"Look it here now," the girl eagerly reached out for the tools and he turned them around. "Ya gotta hold 'em by the handle. Handle."

She mumbled 'hunduh' while she grabbed each handle with her little hands and waited anxiously for his next words. It made no nevermind she wasn't really learning anything. Just the way she listened to his every word was reward enough.

"Look at the tip o' the shafts, Lil' Devil. Are they the same? No, they aren't." And she shook her head, echoeing his no. "This one has a Phillips tip, see, like a cross; and this one has a flat tip. Now look at the screw. Is it flat or is it a cross?"

He let her finger the head of the screw.

"It's a cross, ain't it? A cross."

"Coss," she smiled up at him.

"Yes, it is. A cross. So which one do we want, huh? Do we want the flat tip or the Phillips tip? No, we don't want the flat tip. See, the screw head ain't got a flat slot. No flat slot, no flat tip. We want the Phyllips."

"Phips!"

"Yes, the Phyllips. Let's unscrew it. Here, let Pappa…"

He unscrewed the beginning then let her hold the handle so she could finish unscrewing. Obviously, she didn't really unscrew anything, as he was the one turning the tool around, but the child was as excited as if she'd done the whole thing all by herself.

"No! Ya don't touch the screw. It's too small. Can ya touch small things?"

"No tush sma' tings," she shook her head, mimicking Pappa's frown.

"Again. Flat tip, Phyllips tip. Flat tip, Phyllips tip. Flat, Phyllips." He put them on the ground in front of the child, the handle towards her. "Which one has the flat tip? Flat."

She looked at him, then down at the screwdrivers, then back at him.

"Fat?"

"Yes, flat."

She squatted and grabbed the correct one. Creed quickly supported the shaft to help her balance it and avoid accidents.

"Fat!" She grinned victoriously.

"That's it, baby girl!"

He accepted the tool then put it back on the floor, on the other side of the Phyllips one.

"Now we want the Phyllips screwdriver. Phyllips. Can you give the Phyllips t' Pappa?"

"Phips!" she put her head down and once more grabbed the correct one. "Phips, Pappa!"

"That's it! That's it, baby girl. Now who is Pappa's smart Lil' Devil? Who is it?"

"I'to'ee!" She laughed. "I'to'ee, I'to'ee, I'to'ee!"

"Yes, ya are. Victoria is very, very smart." he picked her up and threw her up in the air, shrieking in delight. "Pappa's smart, smart Lil' Devil."

"I told you weren't going to finish dat."

Creed turned around to face a smiling Isabel. She sneaked up to his side and slapped his butt. Once more he noticed the difference since she'd started taking the pill, three months before. Even when she was horny, her scent was… dull. Unappealing, really. It was as if half of it pulled him in while, at the same time, the other half pushed him away. He nevertheless kissed the woman lightly as she got on her toes to reach him then he grinned at his real excitement.

"She can tell the difference 'tween a flat and a Phyllips tip!"

Isabel laughed and he invited her to crouch down. He grabbed one of the screwdrivers and showed it to the child.

"What is it, Lil' Devil?"

"What!"

"Is it a flat tip or a Phyllips tip?"

"Phitip!"

But it wasn't. Without a word, he sat her on his leg, grabbed the other one.

"Pay attention, now. Flat, Phyllips. Flat, Phyllips. This is…"

"F'at."

"An' this one?"

"Phips. Fy, Pappa!"

Creed put the tools down and sent the girl flying up again, as requested.

"Oh, 'mor, let me take her inside or you are never going to finish de bike!"

No, he wasn't, but that wasn't the point.

"Someone's gotta teach her the names o' the tools, and it sure as hell ain't gonna be you."

"In English? No. But I will teach her de Portuguese names when she's old enough to _use_ de tools. Will be faster."

"Don't be stupid, Nesi! The sooner she starts learning the better. It makes no nevermind if it takes a long time or not. Ain't that so, Victoria? Yeah, it is. Ya like learnin' stuff from Pappa, don't ya? Yeah, ya do."

"Victor?"

There was something in that tone that grabbed his attention and he frowned suspiciously.

"What?"

"I know dat you call me 'stupid' like you call me 'woman'. To me, dat doesn't mean nothing; I just ignore."

"Well, ya shouldn't. I call ya stupid 'cause ya said or did somethin' stupid. Ya should pay attention an' be smarter the next time."

That aggravated her, but it was the honest truth. That heated glint in her eye was a nice extra, too, even if it didn't make up for the dullness that these days twisted her sweet scent into something stale and almost unpleasant.

"Victor, you want dat Lilia Victoria grows up and thinks dat is normal for a person to call her stupid when she does something de oder person doesn't agree?"

Creed considered her words carefully.

"Victoria ain't stupid. If she does somethin' stupid it's simply 'cause she ain't learned ta do better. It ain't 'cause she's stupid."

She nodded once, tersely.

" _I_ am not stupid, Victor. If I say something you _think_ is stupid, is probably because you and I, we have different _opinions_ and you _think_ my opinion is stupid. Now, you want dat your daughter thinks dat is normal? Dat, when she grows up, if a man has a different opinion, he can call her stupid? Because if she hears you call me stupid when we have different opinions, she is going to think is normal. And dat means dat if a man, or a boy her age, calls her stupid, she is going to _accept_ dat as _normal_. You want dat?"

There was something that made sense in her reasoning, but…

"I only called ya stupid 'cause ya said somethin' stupid."

"She learns how a man and a woman should act from us, Victor. If she learns is ok for a man to call de woman stupid…"

Yeah, he had already gotten that.

"So I can't call ya stupid, is that it? Even if ya are bein' stupid like all hell?"

"Doesn't make difference to me, Victor. Is your daughter you have to think about. Like you said, she loves learn what you teach her. When she grows up, she will look at de behaviour of all boys her age and she will compare dem wid you. If dey act like you, she'll think dey're great. Even when dey call her stupid."

* * *

At 26 months old, Lilia Victoria was a little devil indeed. She would play quietly for hours, only to dash away in the split second you looked away; and while she listened attentively and obeyed promptly to most requests, she was as wilful as her Pappa and as stubborn as her Mamma.

Victor had finished taking care of his bike shortly after lunch and, much to the child's dismay, he'd taken off into the woods without her. After fifteen minutes of crying and wailing, Isabel had finally hit upon the right distraction:

"Come on, my love," she said in Portuguese. "Let's make a cake to surprise Pappa when he comes back. Do you want cake?"

Sniffing, Lilia nodded and Isabel squatted in front of her.

"If you want cake, my love, you have to say it. If you don't say it, if you don't speak, Mamma won't know what you want. Go on: cake."

Unfortunately, it wasn't a good word, the Portuguese 'bolo'. The best the child could do was 'bo-oo'. Most other ingredients were also too difficult. On the other hand, Lilia assisted Isabel in the kitchen very often. Having put all the ingredients on the table, she put the child on a chair, standing, so she could reach for the things spread around. That finally got a naughty smile on her baby's face. Fortunately, Isabel had enough eggs to make up for any accidentally broken ones.

"Now, what do we need first? Give Mamma what we need first. We need…"

This was an easy quiz and her little hands grabbed the card box with the eggs, proudly spouting the twisted Portuguese 'ovsh'.

"Yes, my love. It's the eggs we need first. Now let's weigh them on the…"

"Bansha!"

"Sim, na balança!"

And Isabel brought the scales she'd bought specifically to cook with Lilia. It was an old-fashioned scale with two weighing dishes and a set of weighs. The child loved it and clapped excitedly as Isabel set it on the table in front of her.

"No, no! No weights yet. The flour is the weight of the eggs, remember? So put the eggs on this dish, carefully. Here, let's count them as we put them in."

She gave her one egg and Lilia carefully put it on the dish.

"Um… um…" They counted together. "Dois… dosh… Três… tesh… Quatro… quaht… Cinco! Shink!"

"Five eggs, yay! Now, what do we need next, Lilia? What's next? The flour."

The girl repeated the word and grabbed the bag of flour with both hands.

"Thank you. And a big spoon. Big. Big spoon."

Isabel had an assortment of spoons of different sizes, but Lilia grabbed them all as Mamma repeated 'colher grande' and correctly chose the biggest one, presenting it proudly while mangling the name of the object: cooeh gand.

"Perfect, my love! Now, hold the handle like this… yes, perfect. Help Mamma take the flour from the bag and let's count the spoonfuls, ok?"

Much like she'd told Victor, this was going to take forever. Isabel could prepare the cake in ten to fifteen minutes; but Lilia's help often stretched that period into nearly an hour. It didn't matter, though. Lilia was learning how to cook, she was learning the names of ingredients and kitchenware, and, above all, she was learning Portuguese.

Immersed in an English-speaking society, Isabel knew it was up to her to make sure Lilia learnt Portuguese properly. Everytime she had the child all to herself, Portuguese was the only language allowed. She'd gone online and found Portuguese classic cartoons from her own childhood. She'd found children songs and rhymes. And, not happy with that, she'd composed her own songs. Victor might be proud of his teaching abilities, and justly so, but Isabel was definitely the expert on the matter. She didn't waste time with things outside the child's ability to understand; instead, she focused on every action the child did or saw done, she focused on every colour, shape, object, fruit, plant and animal she could see and touch. The child's Portuguese vocabulary was hundreds of words ahead.

"Hot."

"Yes, my love, it's hot. Very, very hot."

The girl put her hands safely behind her back and sang the little rhyme alongside Isabel as she opened the door of the oven, slid the cake in and closed the door, finishing with 'bake, bake, little oven bake, bake my little cake till it's nice and tasty'.

"How many minutes do we have to wait now, my love?"

"T'enty," she clapped her hands, even if she had no idea how much time that really meant. Well, she had an inkling.

"Twenty minutes, that's right! And that's enough time for what?"

"Foh shin' many shong!"

"Yes, for singing many, many songs. Get your cushion. Run, run, run!"

Isabel set the timer as Lilia rushed out to the den, then went after her to get her own cushion. Sitting on the cushions on the floor of the kitchen, Isabel kicked off with nursery songs from her own childhood, clapping their rhythm. Then she moved on to her own songs, carefully written to expose Lilia to all the Portuguese vowels and consonants, some radically different from English, while telling little funny stories.

She had the A song, the G song, and even the swapped V for B song and vice-versa, both favourites of the child. The L and R songs were the only ones Lilia hadn't yet heard. Those were the last sounds a Portuguese child learns to produce, so she wasn't thinking about introducing them before she was four or four and a half. And then there was the colours songs, that listed all the basic colours, and the individual colour songs, which listed everything with that colour. There was the body song and the shapes song, the sizes song and the pains song. Some had the same melodies, or similar enough, but each topic had its different rhythm. Isabel had even given up relying on memory alone and had started writing each one and filing them. If only she could find a way of recording them with good quality…

The timer was close to going off when Lilia looked sharply to the back of the kitchen, where the door to the laundry room, connecting with the garage, and the door to the gym, connecting to the back yard, stood side by side.

"Pappa!"

She sprang to her feet and ran to the gym door while the timer went off.

Sometimes it worried Isabel, the way she reacted to sounds and smells no one else sensed. What if someone were to notice her uncanny senses?

"Wait, Lilia. Let Mamma open the door."

She stood back for a moment, clapping her hands excitedly, and Isabel heard the backyard door in the gym open. She opened the door to the gym and little Lilia sped off into her Pappa's arms.

"What's this I smell?" He sniffed the air theatrically. "What am I smelling, baby girl?"

"Cake!"

That was one English word she said perfectly. Short words that had only Ks, Ps, Ms, Bs, Vs and Ss were always pronounced perfectly, whatever language.

"Oh, what type of cake is it?"

"Gammah M'ia cake!"

Grandma Maria's cake, Isabel's maternal grandmother. Victor had been the one translating the name of the cake from the Portuguese 'bolo da avó Maria', and after three baked cakes, Lilia had never again used the Portuguese to mention the cake to Pappa, even if she only ever used it for Mamma.

"Yum! Let's eat it!"

"No, Pappa! Is hot."

"It's; it is. It is hot. It's hot. Say it: it'sss hot."

"It'sss-ssss-sss-sss-ssssssssssssssssssssssssssss hot."

"Good. So we'll eat it when it's cold. Cold."

"Cowd."

Isabel, having checked the cake was properly baked, took it out of the oven.

"Is probably a good idea if we eat dinner first, too."

" _It's_ ," Victor growled, which had Lilia clapping hands. She loved that sound. Must take after her Mamma. "Ya're teachin' her all wrong, ya stup… uh… ya… Ya're just fuckin' teachin' her wrong, that's all! Speak properly."

It had worked! The man had indeed decided to stop calling her stupid… even if swearing around the child wasn't the best alternative, but she'd fight one battle at a time. To reward him, she told herself she'd have to improve her English.

"It's," she repeated obediently, leaving the cake on the table and coming over to embrace his waist, kiss her baby's arm. " _It's_ a good idea if we eat dinner first."

"It's," Lilia giggled. "It's, it's, it's. Eeeeets."

"See, it ain't difficult," he continued grouchily. "I don't know why ya never say it right."

"Sorry," she said, rubbing her forehead lightly on his chest and breathing in deeply. "You smell at freshly cut wood. Pine wood."

It always improved his mood when she used her senses to her human fullest, even if it hadn't hurt to notice the bits of wood clinging to his shirt. She guessed it helped him pretend she was like him and his daughter, instead of a weakling human like all the rest.

"I came across an old pine tree the other day," he explained, grouchiness forgotten. "It was about ta fall, so I decided ta fell it 'fore it did naturally. I just carried a section o' the trunk into the backyard. Hey, it's still early. D'ya wanna come an' help? We can take Victoria up there in the wheelbarrow, and she can help ya put branches in it ta bring back."

That was not going to be the fastest approach to the chore, but the child was going to love it.

"I'll get her jacket, in case it gets colder."

"Ok. Com'on, baby girl! Let's get the wheelbarrow, you an' me. Can ya say it right? Wheelbarrow."

"Wee'beh'a."

"Close enough, Lil' Devil," she heard him say as she left the kitchen. "Now pine tree. Felled pine tree. Can ya say 'felled pine tree'?"

Of course she couldn't, the silly man. But it reminded Isabel she hadn't yet written any song about felling trees. Hmm…

She grabbed the jacket and went back to the kitchen, stopped to cover the cooling cake.

Axe, fell, trunk, branches, swing, wheelbarrow…

"Victor?" She called out as she closed the backyard door and locked the house with her control.

"Over here!"

Such helpful directions. She walked beyond the body of the garage and saw Lilia jumping up and down in the wheelbarrow. He was about to push the girl into the wooded area, which still had too much snow for Isabel's taste, but had stopped and waved back.

"Hurry up!"

Isabel saw Lilia squat down obediently before he resumed pushing the wheelbarrow. She didn't hurry that much, though. She was trying out the first lines of her new song under her breath.

Get, get your axe,

Sharpen, sharpen your axe.

There's a tree in the clearing

that must go to the fireplace.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	67. Creston: Cold Comfort

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **67\. Creston: Cold Comfort**

Isabel was going through the yellow song with Lilia, hoping that colour song after colour song would bore her into a nap, when the girl heard her Pappa arriving. It had been ten days since he'd left, and the child was immediately wild, screeching and jumping until Pappa finally scopped her up in his arms.

"I'to'ee snowman!" She clapped excitedly, and Victor went outside to see the so perfectly pronunced snowman the child had made early that morning.

Feeling suddenly down, Isabel looked at them through the den's windows. The snowman was nothing more than two clumps of snow decorated with a wig of twigs. It looked more like a stormed rat's nest, really. The girl had toiled around it for nearly an hour, though, making and remaking it. To get rid of the blues, she went to the kitchen and started preparing a snack for Victor.

It was because of the three-day-old Taylor Rollins. Pru had returned home from hospital the day before but Isabel hadn't visited her yet.

"She needs time to recover and get her bearings," she'd told Leslie, Amber and anyone she'd had the chance to talk to. "Visits at this time are nothing more than a nuisance and an obstacle to a swift recovery."

Nevertheless, she had hunted down Loreen Clemens – Pru's sister-in-law – and had sent through her a rich beef stew, chicken broth enriched with boiled egg yolks and meat, alongside six loaves of freshly baked bread with detailed instructions of how to freeze the surplus and defrost it to the best effect.

Then she'd gone home and hidden the tears from her baby girl. Isabel would still have to wait over two months before she could try a third time. Not that she had any hope the third would be a charm. She had convinced herself that nothing short of six failed attempts must happen before she could have another successful pregnancy.

"Whatch'ya doin'?"

Isabel quickly plastered on a smile as Victor entered the kichen.

"Poutine. Since is only three, I guess you didn't have a good lunch in de plane and want a snack wid substance."

She had been experimenting with the recipe since Victor had left, but she had started her research on it long before. Since the day they had gone to Cranbrook together and he'd had some poutine for an early lunch. She had thought it was a messy thing – the thick chips with the pieces of cheese covered in a gooey gravy – but he'd commented that it was actually good. Which meant he had really liked it.

"Poutine? That ain't Portuguese."

As if she only ever cooked Portuguese recipes! She was constantly checking the local recipes and sauces that Victor liked, carefully studying ways of making them even tastier. She had discovered, for example, that Victor was a much greater fan of chips – any type! – if they soaked in salty water rather than get salt on top after cooking. It retained all the flavour without making them salty, according to him. If she could make everything he liked just a tiny bit (or a whole lot) better than anywhere else, then he'd always want her around. Even if only for the pleasure of her cooking.

"Oh, the shock!" She chuckled carelessly. "Give me ten minutes. Is almost done."

Once she had honed in on a poutine recipe she felt was an improved version of the one in Cranbrook – having gone back twice to try it in order to make a good comparison – she had frozen beef and chicken stock and left every necessary ingredient nearby. Unfortunately, Victor's sudden arrival hadn't allowed for the potatoes to soak in for long, which meant she had dropped an insane amount of salt for the few minutes the chopped potatoes would soak.

"Victoria was tellin' me ya've been singing the colour songs. Ya should make some o' those songs in English."

"Uh… Create lyrics for a song needs an excellent comprehension of de language. You know, de right rhydm, de flow of de words, how you can adapt syllables… I can't do dat. _You_ want write a song?"

She glanced back and saw him shake his head with a grimace.

"But is not necessary," she said, starting to fry the chips. "She hears English everywhere. Is Portuguese dat we need to be more careful if we want dat she is bilingual."

"Yeah, ya're right."

Which meant Isabel was not about to ask Lena to write English lyrics for her songs and rhymes. Rosie had inherited her love and knack for music from her mother, apparently, and since that night when the teenager – appropriately brainwashed and groomed by Isabel – had sung in her debut at the restaurant with a single song paying homage to her mother, things had changed quite a lot. Now, Lena was showing what a natural she was with lyrics, and had already adjusted the lyrics of two songs for Rosie to sing.

"So, what happened in these last days?"

"Pru had her baby three days ago," she shrugged, "and the Skinners showed me how to make homemade maple syrup de oder day. Well, to me and Leslie. Is not difficult but is messy and a long time. I brought a little and you tell me if you prefer dat or de shop one."

Victor got up and peeked into the fridge.

"Is de brown ceramic pot," she told him. "If you prefer de one we made, next year I start making in more quantity."

She glanced his way as he scooped a little with a finger, shooing Lilia's little hand away. He tasted it thoughtfully then nodded.

"I'll try it tomorrow with some pancakes, but it tastes good ta me."

She knew he'd like it!

"Leslie is teaching me to identify plants and flowers you can eat, too."

Actually, the Skinners knew far more than Leslie, which was why she was so keen on going out with them and learn new things, but Isabel didn't want Victor to realise how much time she spent with the couple, so when Leslie had been around, she sometimes mentioned only her. He disliked her so much, that he'd never give it much thought.

He looked back from the fridge, where he'd put the jar back, with a frown.

"Ain't it a bit too early fer wild flowers?"

Yes, obviously.

"But not for bark and pine needles. Leslie and I met wid de Skinners when dey went foraging for bark, last week. I have one bottle of pine needle vinegar resting in de pantry. Well, we have at least six weeks of soaking before is ready. And olive oil, too. I used Leslie's dehydrator because de weader isn't good to dry leaves yet."

He didn't comment. The man despised Leslie's New Age quirks, but when he realised how knowing these things made Isabel more in tune with the woods he loved, he'd change his mind. He might forever be the king of hunting, but she would soon know far more about plants to eat and make medicine than he had ever dreamt of. And then, of course, if she could replace most detergents and soaps and what not by natural and organic counterparts, his sensitive nose would be more than happy. Whether he admitted it out loud or not.

"Oh, and Amber had a big fight wid Don. Was something about his shifts but I don't know de real reason. She wanted be an actress, you know, but she is a really bad one because she can't hide her feelings. Don mentioned something last time you saw him?"

"We got better stuff ta do than talk 'bout his problems at home."

She finished absorbing the oil from the freshly fried chips and put them in the plate.

"Yeah, Amber didn't say nothing specific, too. But you listen to me: is something wrong wid de two and is not about shifts. I hope dey fix it soon."

She put the plate in front of him and poured the gravy.

"That smells good."

Isabel held back a victorious smirk. He had to eat the whole thing before she could celebrate and she also had a careful batch of questions to assess his real opinion because, if she were to simply ask him directly, he'd say it was good – or very good, occasionally – and then he'd get annoyed with further questions.

"You want dat I hold her?"

He shook his head. The child had her head against his chest and was breathing slow and deeply, eyes drooping with each blink. As she watched him eat, though, Isabel couldn't stop a silly smile from unfurling.

"I thought about putting meat in de poutine, but I hear dat is not _real_ poutine."

He smirked.

"No, it ain't, but I ain't no purist."

"De potatoes aren't very crunchy, huh?"

He looked thoughtful for a moment, took a forkful.

"No, they ain't bad. Could use a bit more salt."

"You think de gravy is very liquid?"

He shook his head immediately.

"No, the gravy's perfect. Not too hot, not too salty, and I like that bit o' garlicky taste underneath. It don't taste nuthin' like cornstarch, which is good. Some folks put too much of it and it really ruins it. And it don't taste like chicken, either."

Of course, not. She knew he had other preferred meats.

"I used only one part of chicken broth, and five of beef wid bone, cooked long to be more intense."

He nodded his approval and forked in another large portion.

"I knew it was a good idea ta skip lunch on the plane."

Ah, it was good to have him back. Isabel enjoyed her life when she was alone: she went shopping, swapped recipes with Leslie, had wilderness foraging lessons with the fur-trade re-enactors Walter and Annie Skinner, chatted with the folks in parks and shops, went on outings with her friends… She even oggled guys, on occasion. That was Doris's fault. Much like Lyn, Mrs Doris Harper loved to admire a pretty body, and, unlike Lyn, she did not care if it was a man's or a woman's. If it looked good, her eyes were on it. On top of it, Roby Attaway, the new swimmer instructor for the children, had a very handsome body. Nothing to match her Victor, obviously, but his tight, lean body was a sight for sore eyes.

Isabel much preferred oggling guys when Victor was around, though. It was much better to get home and immediately put the man to good use instead of sighing and waiting for the right time to sext, even if it was better than nothing. Unfortunately, Victor hadn't given her many openings in the most recent times, always busy with something.

"I think I'm going to try wid broth of deer. See how de flavour changes. What you think?"

He shrugged and said he'd get her some fresh meat as soon as possible. How soon that turned out to be would tell her how interested he was in the experience.

"Finished?"

He didn't need to answer, obviously.

"I got ya somethin'."

She stopped in her tracks and looked at him, but he was busy playing with a few strands of sleeping Lilia's hair and didn't look up.

"It ain't nuthin' special, just a bottle o' perfume. It smells real fresh, all lemony and orangy. It ain't too strong and it ain't got none o' those synthetics."

His distaste for perfume was not new. In fact, Isabel hadn't worn a perfume since… since her wedding in Portugal! And it wasn't only because of him, as Lilia didn't seem to like perfumes either.

"I din't call ya ta ask what fragrance ya preferred 'cause I was in the middle of a job. I was stalkin' this guy but I had ta blend in an' buyin' somethin' was just the thing ta do. Gettin' ya a perfume was basically killin' two birds with one stone, and if ya don't like it, it ain't no problem. Like I said, I had ta buy somethin' that didn't scream 'mercenary on a job'."

"Ok. I smell it and den I tell you if I like it."

He nodded and got up carefully, saying he was taking the girl to the makeshift bed Isabel had put in the den, for her nap.

"An' then I'm gonna have a shower."

Good. Isabel hurried with the kitchen then ran upstairs and put on one of her famous no-underwear dresses. It was still too cold to wear them outside, but it was nothing a bit of central heating couldn't fix. She had wanted to get her gift from his bag, but he still didn't want her unpacking, so…

* * *

Victor sat up in bed with a start, his breathing ragged. Isabel had been expecting it: it was much too common on the first nights after a job. For six months now, she had lain still and silent in bed when he had nightmares. Nowadays, he didn't hurry out of the house anymore. He might be a bit violent pulling the sheets off him – though tonight he hadn't been – but he mostly sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes. Then he would either go over to Lilia's room, or he would take a shower, or he'd got out for a run.

Through every single event, Isabel would focus hard on her breathing, to sound as relaxed and sleepy as possible. As invisible and non-existant as possible. Every single time, though, she'd go through every possible action and word she could use to change that routine. She'd played scenario after scenario, predicting his every reaction and adjusting her words till she nearly had a script of the whole thing etched into her brain. Well, half a dozen scripts.

Tonight, she decided it was time to give it a try. Perhaps it wasn't the best time, as she herself felt a bit off; however, it was that slight discontent brewing inside her that pushed her forward. Perhaps she'd feel better if she could finally comfort the man and give him some peace of mind.

She turned in bed and opened her eyes to his back.

"You're awake?" she grumbled sleepily, welcoming a yawn that came naturally before he could answer.

Then she got up and headed to the bathroom, forced her bladder to empty. One of her scenarios was coming out to find Victor gone, so she was pleased to find him still on the bed edge, even if he glanced her way with a frown that might have been snarlish. Now it was time to make a decision: either mention she was going to get something to eat and offer to fix him something too, or charge headlong.

The food was definitely a safer option, but the low level of unease she felt would probably worsen with an unwanted midnight snack.

She sat on the edge of the bed, too, mirroring his position. It was now or never.

"If you are not going out, can I ask you a favour?"

"What," he grumbled.

She hesitated.

"What is it, already!"

Isabel breathed out and got on the bed, kneeling behind him.

"Embrace me."

He frowned at her, an angry 'what the fuck' which only made that discontent inside her more intense.

"Just put your arms around me and embrace me like… like I'm going to disappear!"

She was running off the script, now, which explained the stupid wording. She knew better than to touch that festering wound that was his fear she might try to leave him.

"What the hell are ya talkin' about! Disappear? What the fuck, woman!"

God! The frustration brought tears to her eyes and she simply lunged forward and grabbed his body tightly, her arms around his shoulders and her fingernails boring into his back.

He stood still for a moment, and she was grateful for it, but then he escaped her grip, grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Look at me, dammit! What's this story 'bout ya disappearin'?"

Stupid, stupid wording!

"It's just a way of speaking," she switched to Portuguese. "Just hold me as tight as you can. As if…"

"Why? What's wrong? Are ya havin' nightmares again?"

She shook her head, tried to get back to one of the scripts.

"I don't want to feel alone," and as she said it she realised it was true.

Over the last months she'd felt alone far too many times even though Victor was next to her. Why?

"Ya're safe, Nesita," he said automatically, "estás segura."

But it wasn't that! She lifted herself higher so she could put her arms around his neck. Now it wasn't the time to get at the root of her feelings. Now, it was about showing the man that being held by someone when he felt down was pleasant and soothing. His hands slid down to her waist still a bit unsure of what they were doing.

"Hold me tight," she insisted in Portuguese, but although his embrace tightened it still felt lax.

"Wid more streng," she demanded in English. "Hold me wid all your streng. Till you think I'm going to break. Please. _Please_ , Victor."

He complied and Isabel let out an involuntary whimper at his ear.

"Yes, my love, dat's it. Harder."

"What happened?" He asked softly, suspiciously.

"Can you feel how much I want you when you hold me like dis?"

He was silent.

"Please tell me you can feel how much I want you," she knew better than to say I love you by now. His reaction was always dependent on his mood.

"Tell me you can feel dat nothing bad can happen when you hold me like dis. Tell me."

"There's nuthin' bad gonna happen, my Nesi."

That was not the idea.

"I know that. I can feel it when you hold me like dis. Feels like nothing, _nothing_ can hurt us. Can you feel de same?"

He hesitated before saying a 'sure', obviously for her benefit. But that was ok. It was a first step in the right direction.

"And can you feel how much I want you?"

He kissed her neck and that discontentment inside her became stronger. Why? Not now, though.

"I'd have ta be blind an' deaf not ta see how much ya wants me."

Isabel held him tighter, a hand going through his hair. One day he'd let her embrace him like this whenever he needed comforting. One day. Even if she had to trick him into getting there.

"Oh, my love… Everything will be fine," one day he'd accept her saying that, but, for now, she added a "won't it" so he could imagine he was comforting rather than being comforted.

His answer was a kiss on her neck.

"I'm cold," she whispered.

Victor got the bed covers as she laid down, arms lightly outstretched waiting for him. As he laid down himself, Isabel quickly pulled herself a bit higher on the bed and coaxed him into lying his head over her chest, so she could kiss its top.

"It makes me feel so peaceful," she said, "when you hold me like dis. A bit tighter, please. Dat's it. Makes me feel like nothing bad can ever touch us."

"What happened?" He insisted, a slight tone of worry.

She kissed the top of his head and carressed the nape of his neck.

"Nothing has to happen for me to want to feel dat everything's ok. I just can't remember de last time you held me like dis."

Probably because it had been never.

They stayed like that in silence for some time, then he let go and gazed into her eyes.

"Feelin' better?"

She smiled softly, caressed his cheek.

"I always feel better when you hold me like dat." She frowned. "You feel good, too, right? You don't think is annoying."

He shook his head and laid down on his side of the bed, studying her. It might be best if she didn't let him think too much about the topic, though. She smirked playfully and leaned over to bite his shoulder, a hand sliding down his abs, but he caught her hand and pulled it way.

"It's late. Ya should get some sleep."

The pieces of the puzzle popped out of their hiding place and put themselves together. He wasn't as horny as before. Ever since the last miscarriage! And since Isabel relied on sex for, among other things, feel safe and desired by the man…

"What? Why are ya lookin' at me like that?"

She swallowed down. Beat about the bush? Accuse him? Check for any problems he might be having? Demand an explanation?

"What the hell is wrong with you tonight, woman? What's yer problem?"

"Little sex," she let slip coldly before she could think her words through.

"What?"

Better take the chance to rephrase it, to… She shook her head, having trouble organising her thoughts with the appropriate care Victor's sensitivities required.

"Since de miscarriage you… you don't have sex wid me."

"What the fuck…!"

"I mean, not so many times. You always… when you come from a job, you want nothing but fuck my brains out again and again. I… If I put one of my no-panty skirts or dresses, you are constantly… But since de miscarriage, you…"

He was looking at her with a shocked expression, but there was no outrage. No anger. It was true, then.

"Even today! It was me dat came after you. I put de dress and you… you only did it once and den said you had to unpack."

He seemed frozen. God, it was true!

"I don't attract you anymore," her voice broke as the reason stabbed her heart. "Because I can't have more babies."

"What? No! No, it ain't…"

Victor got off the bed with a grunt and paced about the room as he rubbed his face. Stricken by her discovery, Isabel waited quietly for him to admit it. Instead, he frowned at her with an irritated snarl.

"Yer scent is off," he grumbled.

The last time he'd said that, she'd been pregnant with Lilia without knowing.

"What you're saying?"

"Ya smell… bland."

Bland? What was that supposed to mean? She didn't even know the word!

"Dull," he carried on, but she shook her head curtly, trying to make him understand those words meant nothing to her. "Uh… Insipid. Wishy-washy. It's like ya got dis new scent dat covers yer real one and it's… it smells like bad perfume."

She… smelled? Even though she knew his sense of smell was beyond any normal person's, she couldn't help but sniffing herself.

"I smell bad?" She echoed in disbelief. "Why?"

But it had been since the miscarriage! Could it have changed…

"I don't mean it like _that_. It ain't like ya stink nor anythin'. It just…"

Killed his drive? Was this… Oh, god.

"Is dat why you bought de perfume? To hide de bad smell?"

He glanced guiltly to the side and grumbled it was because of the pill.

What?!

"A person's scent is composed of a whole lotta things, includin' hormones. A pill is basically a dose of synthetic hormones so it changed yer scent. That's basically it."

Isabel took a deep breath and went over the whole idea.

"It don't mean nuthin'," he grumbled.

"When you notice dis?"

He shrugged.

"The change wasn't overnight. It was already changin' from pregnant t' not pregnant so I didn't pay it no attention, but it kept feelin' more an' more off. Then one day I read the package insert and when I saw it was basically a hormone… that's when I put two an' two together."

Well! That was easy to fix.

"I stop take de pill."

The man shook his head and started going on about how important it was that she didn't get accidentally pregnant before the six month interval.

"Poupa-me, homem!" She waved a hand dismissively. "Dat is why dey invented condoms."

But it angered her. He knew what the problem was and he'd rather not have sex than risk a pregnancy. He was well aware that the six-month wait wasn't an absolute necessity, too. Most doctors recommend only to wait until the period resumes and off you go. The only reason she had to wait those long six months was because her pregnancies were all supposed to fail and Angie had brainwashed Victor into believing the wait was essential for a full physical recovery.

Or maybe he had willingly played along with the doctor's fears to diminish the chances of a new successful pregnancy.

"I'm going downstairs to get something to eat," she said suddenly back to Portuguese.

She was too angry to stay in the room with the man and not give him a piece of her mind. What good would that do, though? He might even end up going back on his promise!

She didn't bother to offer to fix him anything. Asshole!

Isabel hadn't yet reached the bedroom door when she heard Victor open the window and jump off the balcony. Well, she didn't hear him jump. Didn't have to.

With him gone, she ended up going back to bed. Damned asshole! And she had been working so hard to find a way to comfort him from his stupid nightmares.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	68. Creston: Fake Birthday

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **68\. Creston: Fake Birthday**

Isabel woke up that Sunday morning with Victor snuggling next to her, fast asleep – as far as she could tell – and his face nested against her neck. It made her smile with pleasure. Their fight over her smelly scent had been about eight days ago and Victor hadn't touched the subject since. Neither had she, for that matter. The episode had cemented how his connection to her had nothing to do with the heart, but it had also highlighted that he did feel an actual attraction for her, otherwise he'd have avoided her completely. But again, it had nothing to do with his heart, and everything to do with his cock. That was ok, though. For as long as he did have an interest in her, she'd be thankful.

She was aware her desire for the man was a bit on the pathetic side, having in mind his real feelings for her, but she couldn't care less. Well, too much. Fortunately, half the time – more than half the time, really! – she could forget all about it as he made her feel cherished. The way he wolfed down her food and, upon questioning, agreed her recipes were great. Perfect. The best! Although maybe with less than mild excitement in his voice. The way he eyed her hungrily when he was horny. The way he embraced her and called her real name… the way he promised he'd keep her safe for ever and ever.

It was easy to forget she was just a convenient tool in his life, and she liked that ease.

Carefully, Isabel, checked the time. Another ten minutes and she'd have to get up. Lilia sometimes threw tantrums in the morning, when she didn't want to get dressed, and last Sunday they'd been late for church on her account. Better to have some time to play in the church yard before the mass started than to arrive half way.

As she made herself comfortable, though, Victor stirred and rubbed his nose gently against her collarbone before nibbling it lightly. Now here was a pleasant way to start the day! The nibbling got a bit fangy but soon became kissing, his hand going over her stomach to find her breasts. It gave her a sudden good feeling.

"Victor?" She whispered.

The response was a meaningless mumble while the kissing returned to a toothy nibbling that sent shivers down her body. She could feel his erection too and she was now sure she was back in her fertile period, or heat, as he called it. Yes!

Only it was too early. It had only been three months since her miscarriage, so there were still three more to go before it was safe to try again. Victor purred in his sleep – God, she loved that sound! – and got in between her legs, which eagerly welcomed him. Oh, the temptation to take advantage of his not fully-awake state and let him knock her up accidentally! It wouldn't be physically damaging, she was sure. Angie was just overly cautious and afraid of the effect of a new pregnancy a month or two after every miscarriage. Isabel knew she could handle it, though.

But she'd agreed to it.

"Victor, wait. Victor!"

His eyes snapped awake, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in and realised what he was doing.

"Condom?" She grinned, even if she felt a bit disappointed.

Victor stood up, though, shook his head. Then he streched all of his naked body and yawned.

"I'm gonna have a shower," he grumbled, leaping off her.

Now she felt _very_ disappointed. She should have let the accident happen. Nevertheless, the greatest disappointment was reserved for after lunch, when he announced he was going to take off on a five-day hunting trip.

"But… is your birthday on Wednesday!"

He rolled his eyes with a light growl.

"It's a fake birthday, woman. It don't mean nuthin'."

"Yes, I know, but I prepared something to you."

He shrugged that she could still do whatever she wanted after he'd come back.

Isabel glared at him, but when his gaze happened to meet hers, she quickly averted her eyes and started cleaning the kitchen furiously.

"What's the big deal?"

"I _prepared_ something to you," she ground through clenched teeth.

She would die before admitting to him that she was fuming because he wanted to make himself scarce. Condoms were a nuisance, yes, but they were better than no sex, right? And after those almost dry three months she'd spent on the pill, the few romps of the last eight days had been less than satisfying. She wanted him fucking her like there was no tomorrow, like he was addicted to her, like he couldn't live without her.

Her fertile scent had always driven him into a sex frenzy… on the few occasions he'd been around for it, anyway. And now he wanted to leave! Probably get his rocks off with some chick he came across, her spurned heart suggested. God, she could…!

"Fine," he growled. "I'll show up on Wednesday mornin'. Happy?"

Oh, the sacrifice! She said nothing as he got up with an angry frown and took Lilia inside, got her ready for her nap. She was not going to make a scene. He wanted to run off and have his fun with other women, did he? Well, fine by her! See if she cared. It would never be anything to him, anyway. She was just the… the tool he needed to have his home and family working perfectly.

She breathed in the tears of angry frustration. She was not going to make a scene.

When she finished sweeping the kitchen, she heard him come down the stairs and head outside.

No. What was she doing? Making a scene would only drive him away, true; but giving him the smoldering angry shoulder would not get him in her pants either.

"He doesn't love you," she told herself in Portuguese. "He doesn't care. Not for real. If you want something, get it, rather than wait for him to decide to give it to you."

That simple thought was enough to cool her fury. She was still mad, no doubt about it, but her thirst for sex was no longer entangled and hidden by it. He could take off for a walk in the woods, though!

"Victor!" She called, going after him. "Victor, can you come here a second, please?"

He was already by his cabin when she put her head out of the window.

"What?" He asked, but she only waved him to come.

Then she ran as fast as she could to their bedroom, grabbed a box of condoms, wait, two. Better safe than sorry. And she ran all the way back. He had just reached the door of the den, stopping with a frown as he watched her run down.

"What's wrong?"

Isabel hooked two fingers into the waist of his jeans and pulled him forward, even if he didn't lean a single eighth of an inch towards her.

"You have too many clodes," she told him sternly.

The sudden danger of having her advances rejected spurred her anger, especially as he kept his frown and didn't give any welcoming signs. Fury once more sizzling in her veins, she grabbed his shirt and pulled it down so hard that a few buttons popped off and her hand was left burning from the friction on the fabric.

"What the fuck…"

He grabbed her wrist and she fought him, already anticipating the dreaded rejection. Instead he kissed her roughly, his claws ripped through her woolen sweater, and she grabbed his hair with all the strength her pianist fingers had, bit his tongue, shivering in pure delight at the vibration his growl produced.

"Bite me!" She demanded.

* * *

He had still left – immediately after dinner and not taking not even a backpack – but at least she'd had a bit of his wild side on that Sunday afternoon. She sure had the claw and fang markings to prove it, even if they were mostly faded by now, except for the bite mark. True, she'd told him to bite, and she'd enjoyed the feel immensely at the time, but she hadn't expected him to bite so deeply or for the marks to remain fresh looking for so long. Good thing Canada was a cold place and she could spend most of the year wearing turtlenecks.

"Are ya still mad," he had asked when Lilia had woken up and called for them.

Yes, she had been, but she had also been satisfied, so she'd bitten his arm lightly and said nothing.

"Yer scent drives me nuts when ya're in heat," he'd explained softly, licking the bite mark. "And ya know ya gotta have a proper break in-between mis… I mean, in-between pregnancies."

Lilia's calls had swerved to crying.

"I'm going to get her," Isabel had said, unwilling to comment on his words.

He'd pulled her back for a last kiss, though, breathing in deeply when he brushed his lips against her neck and shoulder.

"Ya're gettin' cold. Put somethin' on while I take care o' my Lil' Devil. I wanna spend some time with her 'fore I take off."

Lazying in bed on Wednesday morning, anger was far away from Isabel. Even if it pricked her, the truth was that Victor kind of hurt himself when he took off to go hunting for a few days, in the sense that he robbed himself of time better spent with his daughter. Isabel was much too aware that the child meant everything to him, so it was definitely a sacrifice for him to go away. And he did it because he didn't want her physically worn off by miscarriages on top of each other.

She really shouldn't get upset over the few signs that he cared for her well-being. She could kind of understand it, she supposed. Even if waiting for six months diminished the chances of a miracle.

"Mamma?"

Isabel looked at the watch. 5.57. Outside, there was already light but the sun hadn't risen yet. The sky must be clear, which was a good sign for her plans.

"Mamma!"

"Mamma's going," Isabel called out in Portuguese before getting up with a quick stretch.

It was time to get busy, anyway, since Victor might show up any time.

* * *

"She's too young for a swing!" Isabel laughed.

But she still got up to inspect the thick branch Victor was testing. She jumped up easily to grab it with her hands then started swinging to and fro while singing a Portuguese rhyme.

"Whatch'ya doin'?"

"Count the times I can sing de rhyme, ok?"

He shook his head but did so. When she started it for the fifth time, he got behind her and halted the swinging. Her complaint turned to giggling once he embraced her waist and nibbled her neck with a rumbling growl. Lilia was jealously trying to separate the two in the next second.

"It's how we used to swing when we didn't have a swing," she explained in Portuguese while she distracted her baby girl, lifting her up and making her sing to and fro. "Who could swing for the longest, won. I was the girl who could swing the longest. I could swing for longer than most boys, too!"

"I'm still gonna put up a swing there," Victor said.

"How about an observation deck?" She countered. "The trees and bushes block the view, but when I was swinging I had glimpses of the entire valley. We could call it our private watchtower!"

He'd laughed, but nodded.

"Sure! Why not? But that's after the beach house is ready. Com'ere."

They both sat down on the picnic towel and, while Victor got a pad of graph paper and the house plans, Isabel put the empty food containers back in the basket, left around only a handful of biscuits to distract Lilia while she didn't get sleepy enough to take her afternoon nap. Victor pulled her to him and she leaned against his body, his arm encircling her waist. For a moment, Isabel expected Lilia to join them in an effort to push them apart – it wouldn't be the first time – but she was busy trying to catch a small light yellow butterfly. It was the first Isabel had seen this year. Taking advantage of the distraction, Victor pulled her in for a kiss and let his hand slide down to her crotch. It was a second, though. Lilia jumped onto their laps and didn't leave until Victor spread the map and she got bored.

The California house was nearly finished, in terms of building. Isabel hadn't seen it yet, not even the terrain, but Victor had shown her lots of images, plans and graphs. The property was heavily forested and there were cliffs all around, protecting a relatively wide pocket of sandy beach. The house was on high ground and would eventually sport a staircase that would lead to the beach, where an artificial pool – but natural looking, obviously – would be built. The sea was cold and, when the tide was ebbing, there was sometimes an undercurrent that made swimming dangerous for inexperienced swimmers. There was no way Victor would let his baby girl get in those dangerous waters before she could swim faultlessly. For now, though, there was only the house.

"I'm gonna have a fence all the way here," he showed her on the map. "And maybe near the cliffs too. Just in case our Lil' Devil decides ta become a daredevil. I can always get rid of it later, when she's older."

"What about the deck on the west side of the house?" Isabel pulled the plan closer. "I know we'd mentioned cable and rope for the railing, but I was wondering if making it all wood wouldn't be better. Simpler to maintain, too."

He frowned and nodded.

"Got a design in mind?"

"Tonnes," she snorted. "But it's probably better if we stick to those simple vertical ones. In white. I was also thinking we could have a couple of large boulders as decoration in the deck. We could use them as an improvised seat, or even table, if they're stable enough for it, and have just a bit of earth around them for a bit of grass or whatever plants are suitable."

Victor shrugged, but then said it was a good idea. Really good one.

"Kids love climbin' stuff," he elaborated. "We could even have a pile of 'em boulders and make it into a sort o' rocky playground."

Isabel grabbed the map again and pointed to the bit of land south of the house. It was supposed to become a wide gardened corridor, complete with arbors covered in grapy vines and roses – she'd choose which plants to use next summer when she finally visited. The slip of land, while comfortably wide, was stuck between the house and a steep slope.

"We can have it here. A rocky base with little challenge, then getting progressively steeper and then… we could have ropes! Hanging from the top of the slope, right here."

His eyes shone at the rope idea.

"It's too narrow," he said excitedly. "Let's do it… hmm… here. There's more space. We can also add a couple o' slides. Slidin' all the way down will be a great motivation fer any kid ta keep climbin', workin' on those lil' muscles while havin' fun."

"Oh! We can have three different slides at three different heights!"

"I'm gonna start lookin' at slides. Though it's probably better if I take a good look at the terrain, first. We might hav'ta get 'em slides custom made."

"Or we can remake the slope to fit what we want."

He looked up with a wide smile.

"Or both! By the way, d'ya still wanna have the barbecue on the beach?" She nodded. "I'm gonna tell 'em ta have a pipe come all the way down so ya can have drinkin' water. I'll have it covered by rocks so it ain't visible."

Isabel sighed.

"Maybe we can make it look like a mini-bar worthy of a tropical beach, with stools and everything." He grimaced that long-chaises were more comfortable and she shrugged. "And then I can kick back and drink some milkshakes and cocktails while I see you surf those beautiful waves."

He laughed at that, but commented it wouldn't be any time soon.

"Our Lil' Devil will have to learn how to swim real well, first. Then I'll learn how ta surf so I can teach her."

"And when do you think it'll be the best time for her to start swimming classes?"

Victor folded plans and maps, put them in the pad and put it all away. Then he lay down on the ground while Isabel came closer, intent on using his shoulder as a pillow.

"I read that the best age ta really learn is four or five, 'cause that's when kids are supposedly coordinated enough ta develop autonomy. Classes 'fore that are always based on gettin' at ease with bein' in the water, learnin' how ta hold yer breath, developin' coordination, but always with someone right by their side. No autonomy whatsoever."

"Our baby girl is more coordinated than most kids her age and older," Isabel pointed out.

Which was no wonder, with all the physical exercise Victor put her through. Not that the girl had ever complained of running through the woods after her Pappa!

"I expect the pool ta be finished this summer, so I guess we could start then. Just gettin' her used ta it an' then we'll see how her coordination evolves."

"But only during summer, love? Why not take her to the swimming pool in the Community Complex during the winter?"

He thought it over and Isabel got up to get a biscuit. As she lay down, though, he bit the thing, which basically crumbled in her hands and got him laughing.

"Thank you. I love being covered in biscuit crumbles. My favourite thing in the whole world!"

He embraced her and nibbled her cheek, since the neck was completely covered by the woolen turtleneck. Isabel almost regretted wearing it, but the early Spring temperatures felt like winter by her mediterranean standards and lazying about on the picnic blanket didn't make her feel particularly warm. Not having much skin to focus on, they ended up just kissing. Isabel didn't call it making-out when there were three layers of clothes in between her body and his hands. Especially as Victor had learnt there was nothing going to kill their fun quicker than pulling up her sweaters and letting cold seep into her bones.

A crow croaked loudly nearby and caught their attention for a second. Then Victor sort of sighed and leaned his head on her shoulder.

"Let's do it this way: the moment she can float an' paddle around by herself, we can start takin' her ta the pool durin' winter. But not before that, ok?"

Isabel nodded. All she wanted was for the girl not to be afraid of water, the way Isabel was, and to be a strong swimmer.

* * *

It was almost three when they started the slow hike back to the house. Isabel had said that Rosie would give her a call once she left school, but Creed had warned phone reception might not be the best so they'd gotten on their way.

Isabel must be at the peak of her fertility, he figured. The scent had hit him harder when he'd arrived at the house, that morning. She'd been preparing the picnic in the kitchen and he had almost lost all control over himself! He'd dragged the woman into the laundry room and locked the door so his Lil' Devil couldn't accidentally burst in, then he'd gone out and waited in the yard for the picnic to be ready.

At that time, he'd regretted having given in to the woman's wishes, but once they'd set off, he'd realised the scent wasn't as demanding. Although, it made sense: the house trapped and accumulated the scent, making it stronger. Outside, the breeze scattered it about, making it less intense. Not that he wasn't dying to get in her pants, but he had been able to enjoy the picnic without a hitch and just embracing the woman, keeping her nearby, had been almost satisfying.

"Hey!"

Isabel's shoulder bumped against his arm and he immediately steadied her, even if she didn't really need his help as she lifted the basket away from their baby girl who was head-butting its bottom with naughty delight and much too fervor.

"Oh, stop that, you little devil!" She laughed in Portuguese, pausing for a second to lift the basket even higher, as the girl kept jumping to try and strike it with her head. "Run off ahead! Go on!"

Her target being effectively out of reach, she did run off. Creed's hand was too happy to be on his woman's waist, though. Unfortunately, the uneven path didn't make it easy to advance in that sort of half embrace, and his hand slid remorsefully until it bumped against her hand and captured it.

She looked up at him with a slightly surprised look. He rarely held her hand, after all.

"So ya don't lose yer balance again, when she catches ya unaware next time."

Isabel snorted but squeezed his fingers, giving him an excuse to hold her hand more securely. He'd rather be squeezing other body parts, though.

"Boobuh! Pappa, boobuh, boobuh!"

"Spotted a bluebird, eh?"

Standing in the middle of the path, the girl spun around to nod happily.

"What colour was it?"

She laughed that it was blue. It's a _blue_ bird, Pappa!

"And how many did ya spot?"

"Two," she said determinedly. "Mamma an' Pappa."

"Oh, really? Must be gettin' their house ready fer 'em babies. Now tell me, were they very high up, or a bit high up?"

She shook her head, losing interest in the topic, and kicked a twig near her foot then picked it up and put in in her mouth before spitting it out.

"Down 'ow. Picky t'igs fo' the babies."

"Not fer the chicks," he corrected. "Fer the nest. Say it: collectin' twigs fer their nest."

She mumbled the approximate number of syllables but she was too busy picking up twigs and throwing them up at trees to bother with the lesson. He didn't worry about it. At two years old, his baby girl could identify quite a few birds. For as long as they had distinctive colours or appearances, she could name them: grouses, gulls, swallows, magpies, robins… He was so proud of her! Even if she mangled the names into near gibberish. He couldn't wait for May and the mass arrival of migratory birds so he could teach her more. But it wasn't just birds, it was mammals too. Not to mention she was excitingly precocious where it came to directions as she never seemed to lose her bearings. Not that it was a big surprise: she was constantly folowing Creed around the property so she had had plenty of chances to learn the most used paths.

However, Pappa usually kept a fast pace, making her run after him, so today she had the rare chance to explore the sides of the paths, jumping over logs and running round tree trunks, picking grass and rocks from the ground to throw them about.

"Lil' Devil," he called mildly when she walked too far off the path.

She came back immediately, jumping over dwarved patches of grass and then sprinting down the path ahead of them. He let her go until he stopped seeing her then called her back, which turned her into a cannon ball directed at his legs.

When they finally reached the tree limit – which he had trimmed to quite a few feet from the house – the girl dropped to a giggling crouch. There was a deer in the grassy clearing. The young animal turned its head to them, then walked away. Victoria chased it immediately.

At his side, her hand still in his, Isabel sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. He didn't want to go inside the house. Her scent would get more intense again and he'd go from enjoying himself to painfully holding back.

"Why don't we sit fer a bit an' let her run about till Rosie calls?"

Isabel had arranged for the teenager to take Lilia to the museum, though they'd probably spend most of their time outside in the garden. He helped her get the picnic blanket on the ground and they both sat down.

Leaning against him, she once more sighed.

"Is somethin' wrong?"

She shook her head.

"Do you like this clearing as it is?" She said softly in Portuguese.

She mostly spoke in Portuguese when they weren't in public, even if he didn't. While he understood that his Lil' Devil needed contact with the language, it sometimes annoyed him.

"Why wouldn't I like it?"

She shrugged.

"I miss seeing flowers everywhere. It's the first sign of Spring in Portugal, you know? Little white flowers and yellow daisies sprouting everywhere! And then the poppies: blood red everywhere! The colours of early spring: green, white, yellow and red."

He didn't get where she was going with the conversation so he didn't say anything. Maybe she'd change the topic.

"Last year, this clearing had almost no flowers at all. It makes it really sad, don't you think?"

He kissed her temple, nibbled her ear. She giggled and he hoped she'd change the topic now and stop asking stupid questions.

"Victor, be honest: do you think it's very… uh… fine! Do you think it's stupid if I planted flowers all through the clearing so it looks livelier?"

He sighed.

"Do whatever ya want! If ya wanna turn this into a garden, go ahead. The only thing I don't want is trees in this strip o' terrain, so no person or animal can come close t' the house without being seen."

She was quiet but he knew, he _knew_ she had something else to say.

"Spill it out. What is it?"

"Will you talk to the Matchetts for me?" She asked softly.

Danny Matchett, owner of the Erickscapes company, was a quiet man that kept to himself. Creed had contacted him last summer and hired his gardening services. His men stopped by once a month or every two months to help keet Isabel's yard in check. She wasn't exactly a newbie – she knew too much about plants to be deemed one – but she also knew nothing about when to do what to which plants in the Canadian weather. For her, the strawberry season should start in early May and there should be peaches by June. In Creston, thanks to its mild weather, strawberries ripened in June and peaches in August.

Danny Matchett and his son, Kirk, had made themselves helpful by explaining the best plants to suit Isabel's wishes. Thanks to them, the woman now had both yards surroundered by kitchen herbs, all sorts of berry bushes, grape vines growing towards a pergola, as well as a couple of apple and peach trees, not to forget the two quince trees. Everything in neat pairs. She had wanted an orange tree and a lemon tree too, but that would require building a greenhouse where the trees could spend the winter and she had sorrowfully given up her plan. The lemon tree wouldn't have fruit throughout the year anyway, the way they did back in her warm Portugal, and that had been her main desire. Nevertheless, a couple of the herbs she wanted had had to be placed in pots and they had to be taken inside once the Fall frosts made their appearance.

Creed had investigated both Matchett and his employees and had found no red flags. Isabel, though, didn't like them. The previous year, they had come in to do something to the fruit trees – Creed didn't really keep track of the gardening tasks – when he was away. The date had been previously arranged so he'd be around but he had been delayed by a few cancelled flights and, by the time he'd arrived, late at night, Matchett's men had come in and done their work. Isabel, though she had tried to play it cool, had spent five nights waking up with nightmares. She'd eventually admitted that she had had a panic attack while they were working in the garden even if they had done nothing to justify her reaction.

"I'll ask 'em fer a catalogue o' flower seeds an' stuff so ya can choose what ya want."

She kissed him thankfully and, for another long moment, he felt the need to go further.

"When is that damned kid gonna call already!" He grumbled.

"Any time now," Isabel promised breathlessly. "Oh, have you heard? A bunch of tourists almost died in Duck Lake last Monday. A group went out on their little boat but then somehow they turned the boat around. None of them were good swimmers, so they just held on until help showed up. Their friends called the Mounties when they didn't show up for dinner and the SAR guys fished them out. I heard they had to be taken to hospital because they were almost dead of cold and at least one is still in hospital because he had another health problem that got affected by the event. I don't know the details."

He nodded slowly, suspicious.

"Was it Don who told ya?" But then he remembered Isabel still avoided him like the plague, even if she tried to hide it with a brazen front. "I mean, Amber. Did he tell her ta tell ya?"

Isabel laughed and said Lena had told her. That the tourists were supposed to have dinner at her restaurant and that they had called the Mounties from there.

"Why? Do you think he's trying to send you messages through his wife?"

Creed shrugged, annoyed.

"He's a fuckin' asshole. Keeps insistin' I should join the group. I've told 'im I ain't gonna be goin' through no pansy courses, but he just keeps bringin' it up. Next time, I'm gonna squeeze his scrawny lil' neck till he blacks out. Maybe that'll teach 'im ta stop buggin' me."

"Why does he insist so much? Has he explained?"

He shrugged again, annoyed with the whole conversation. Thankfully, Isabel sighed and lay back on the blanket, gazing up lazily at the puffy white clouds that sailed the April sky.

"I'd feel better if you knew why he is so insistant." Creed growled, aggravated. "It's suspicious! What kind of hidden agenda could he have that requires you to join the group?"

"I don't know and I don't care!" Creed growled more intensely.

She looked at him, her eyes stubbornely… fearful. Maybe not quite fearful, as she didn't have the tell-tale aroma of fear, but there was definite worry in those brown eyes and he felt the impulse to kiss her, soothe away every little concern.

"Don't worry, my Nesi. He can't hurt ya."

She kissed back distractedly before whispering that not knowing someone's intentions means being caught unaware. And he was a telepath! What if his powers had let him know that Victor Creed-Kredall was a dangerous mutant and he was planning to get rid of him?

"I imagine SAR members face lots of dangers… what if his plan is to cause an accident that can kill you? And I know," she added quickly, "that your healing factor makes that possibility near impossible. But he doesn't know, does he? He could be planning… God, I don't know!"

Creed shook his head. There was no way a telepath could cause him much harm.

"But you don't know how powerful he is! Or if he has other powers beside that! It's a security risk, love. Oh, do find out what his aim is!"

"Fine," he said just to shush her. "I'll dig into it."

But she sighed in a foreboding manner and he groaned. When that woman caught onto something, she just didn't let go!

"Do you know what really unsettles me? Is that you told me you'd like to join the group, it's just those unnecessary courses that are stopping you. And I also think it would be great for you. It would probably be the only activity in this whole area that you can find genuinely interesting. I do so want that you can have fun doing something you love, like being out in the woods doing what you do best!"

He snorted.

"Killin' is what I do best, Nesi. Not savin' dumbasses who are too stupid ta keep out o' trouble."

She smiled adoringly at him.

"For me, what you do best is letting your animal side act freely. And, the way I see it, that means enjoying the woods and hunting, stalking. Either animals to eat or lost people, it doesn't matter. And it means fucking my brains out very satisfyingly, of course."

Creed kissed her again, but this time she responded eagerly, her hands pulling him closer. Damn, when was Rosie going to be free! He grabbed that stupid turtleneck and pulled it down, so he could nibble her neck and enjoy the fast pulse of her carotid artery. It was more or less at that point that her natural scent was strongest, while clothed. Exposing a slender portion of her shoulder, he noticed the bite mark from the previous Sunday and licked it gently.

"Does it hurt?" He asked.

"Hmm? No. Listen, I just want to see you happy," she breathed softly. "And I so loved going into town and hearing people talk about the way you saved that little boy!"

Creed laughed at that.

"Make up yer mind, my Nesi. Ya either wanna see me happy, or ya wanna hear 'em folks praisin' me."

She sneaked her hands under his shirt and claimed she wanted both.

"The only problem is that you have to pretend you don't have your heightened senses and they're precisely what make you a better searcher to the rescue than everyone else. Are there ways you can use them and pretend you used… I don't know. Crazy perfect though humanly normal tracking skills?"

He shrugged. He'd never had to worry about pretending he wasn't using his heightened senses. In some ways, he didn't even know how exactly normal humans tracked. It was weird to think they did so based only on visual cues. He knew those – probably better than most, due to his many decades of experience – but a footprint didn't exist without an associated scent. For normal people, a track must be something like… like watching TV for him. Seeing but not smelling. Although he was more than used to it, it did make things feel… incomplete, sort of. Unsatisfying. And yet that was the world for a normal human.

"And what if they asked you to give lessons so the other members could become good trackers, too? How could you explain things that they can't experience? Maybe it is better you don't join."

He frowned at the idea it was better he didn't join for fear his powers would be discovered.

"I can find ways ta hide my powers with no problem," he grumbled.

Only that would mean really understanding how human senses work. After all, he could claim he simply used his human senses to the utmost. Like any other skill, some people are better at some things than the rest, and there's nothing like practice to hone one's senses.

"What's the furthest sound ya can hear an' make out what it is?"

The woman laughed.

"What? In kilometres? How do you want me to know?!"

"I'm serious," he growled softly. "If I'm gonna pretend I ain't usin' superhuman senses, I gotta know the limits of human senses. Ya got good hearin' fer music, so I figure I can use yer limits as a gauge. That way I won't go about sayin' I can hear a guy talkin' a mile away when normals can't hear 'im beyond half a mile."

Isabel sat up and looked seriously at him.

"Does that mean you're going to join? What about those courses you didn't want to do? Or are you thinking they can give you hints about how to disguise your powers?"

Hm. He hadn't thought about that. Perhaps they could be useful after all. He growled, annoyed.

"Ok, let's start!" Isabel slapped his leg. "Right now I can hear… uh… lots of birds. Different birds. There's a tee-teeee-tee-tee like sound coming from that side and a light whistle-like sound in short little waves… Oh, that was a crow! Just now, did you hear it?"

"No, I'm deaf," he snorted. "Of course I heard it! It's about 200 feet in the woods. That tee-tee one is a chickadee an' the other one is a robin."

She pouted theatrically and he laughed.

"Ya know what? I'm gonna teach ya ta distinguish birds and animal sounds."

She shook her head dramatically, claiming she could distinguish pigeons and doves and swallows with her eyes closed. The movement of her ponytail teased him and he grabbed it, pulled her down onto his chest.

"Sh, listen carefully. Can ya hear this low almost chirp-like sound followed by a couple of near barking… as if it were a tiny pup?" He imitated the sound for a moment. "Can ya hear it?"

Her breasts squeezed softly against his chest as they both breathed silently.

"Yes," she whispered.

"That's a squirrel," he whispered back fer no reason.

She looked down at him and smiled. She looked so perfect right now! The scent of her heat enveloped him and, for a moment, it was as if nothing else existed but this perfect woman on top of him. It was barely even sexual, even if his groin was very much alive.

"Do you want to know what your present is?" She said in another whisper.

He shushed her with a long kiss. Kissing made the scent of the heat more intense, pleasure and undeniable need side by side. But then her hands started roving his body and the pleasure was slowly taken over by the need, more urgent, throbbing and swollen. Biting. He was starting to feel the need to rip both their jeans off as pleasure turned to insufferable need. Frustrated, he let go of the woman and got up, looked around. His Lil' Devil was wandering about, but the clearing was large enough that she couldn't get too far away. There was no danger lurking anywhere, he knew, unless it was a bee or similar. He took a few steps in the girl's direction, but she was busy alternately squatting and walking. Must be playing with a bug, he supposed, and took a deep breath to get the woman's heat out of his system.

As Isabel sat up, he looked down at her. Ever since she'd become fertile again after Victoria's birth, the scent of her heat had always driven him into an unending lust that brought on the most satisfying sex in his life. He could have fucked the woman non-stop for the entire period, especially the three day peak. That wasn't exactly doable, though, especially as their daughter grew older and spent less time napping.

But it wasn't just that: Isabel really couldn't keep up with him when he got into a fucking frenzy. On her second heat, she had gone from being a willing participant to enduring to 'I need a break' in only three hours! Although, truth be said, he'd been going at her six and seven times per hour. He had always had high sex stamina, but that scent on the woman just kept him going and going.

He'd soon realised that the condoms might not be a turn on – not for a long stretch – but they didn't kill his urges, either, so his way of dealing with it had been to keep away from the woman as much as possible. Up until that first Christmas, only twice had he been in the house when she was fertile. He had to go away on jobs nearly once a month, anyway, so he had started matching those jobs to her heat periods.

When he'd knocked her up, back in January, he'd been on her till she'd asked for a break, then he'd taken off for a run in the woods… and come back for a morning round, a cold shower and a day-long hike. Rinse and repeat for five days.

He wasn't complaining, but he wasn't exactly happy, either. And it honestly puzzled him: he had never truly noticed women's fertile periods. Sure, he was aware of it, and he was aware they smelled particularly enticing during those periods, but it had never sent him into unending lust. It had never happened at all with any woman whatsoever – Isabel included – until after his baby girl's birth. And, again, only with Isabel. He knew the pregnancy had changed the woman's core scent, but it still didn't explain the intensity of her heat.

Today, though, even if she was at the peak of her fertility, he was far from feeling that pressing lust unless she was too close for too long. Sure, it sometimes threatened to overwhelm him, as it had just now, but it was nothing compared to the last few times. The big difference was that today was the first time they'd spent most of their time together out of the house.

Isabel frowned at his stare, then stuck her tongue out. He chuckled.

Planning the details of the beach house together with Isabel was satisfying in ways he didn't understand. He was almost sorry that the place would be finished that summer. Maybe that watchtower she'd mentioned… Yeah, he could build it himself. With her assistance.

He crouched, still looking at her.

"If ya tell me ya got me more fuckin' silk ties fer my birthday present, I'll be pissed ta no end."

He was grinning pleasantly as he said it, though, and she laughed, which only added to his pleasure. He loved that sound.

"It's a triple present," she said. "But you only get one-third of it."

"Huh?"

She laughed again. This time he didn't find the sound as pleasing, since she was clearly laughing at his confusion.

"Three short expedition backpaks," she said brightly in English, the first time she had used the language that day. "Waterproof. Lightweight nylon. Lumbar support. Shoulder straps wid extra padding. Lots of pockets and pouches."

He was still confused. Why the hell did he need backpacks? And three, on top of it! Isabel was too pleased with her description to stop, though.

"My backpack fits perfectly. I experimented it in de shop, and I put lots of heavy stuff inside. Is perfect!"

Hers? Wasn't the present for him? But then he'd remembered she'd said it was a triple present and he was supposed to only get a third of it.

"And de one for Lilia Victoria is de more adorable thing in de world!"

What?

"I think you are going to like your, but I asked and you can change for anoder if you don't like it. And, I admit, I went a little crazy. I bought a… wait, I have to say dis slow: a hiking backpack child carrier."

Hiking gear for the three of them. She had bought hiking gear for the _three_ of them.

"Last summer, you went hunting alone in the Rockies and you brought me dat beautiful deer pelt. But I thought… our baby girl is old enough to walk for hours up and down de slopes of our lands and she doesn't need diapers too. Maybe we can go and hunt a deer togeder."

It was the single best present ever!

* * *

Panting in the bed, Isabel closed her eyes lazily. God, she'd missed his wild sex! Sure, they'd had angry sex just a few days before, but it wasn't the same. Two very different delicacies, the way she saw it.

"Hurry up," Victor said from the bathroom. "Don't make me come an'get ya!"

"Going!"

But she didn't move a finger.

They were supposed to have dinner at Lena's at about eight, where they'd meet up with Rosie and their baby girl. Isabel had driven down to Creston to leave Lilia with her much loved babysitter, and had told Victor to relax and get ready for her. A little inversion of what usually happened. He hadn't really liked the idea, but she'd mock-snarled at him that, if she had fixed up such a nice surprise for him, the least he could do was prepare something romantic in the fifteen minutes that would take her to go and return. Something like a naked beast ready to jump and ravish her the moment she returned. And she'd said it in English too. She'd asked Amber's help to improve her sex vocabulary in English. He'd laughed and had stopped grumbling then.

When she'd gotten back, he had indeed jumped her and clawed her clothes into shreds. The house had been terribly cold, but he'd soon made her forget about it. They'd started in the hall, then she'd pretended to escape into the den, which apparently he had guessed she'd do as the box of condoms and her tube of lube awaited them. After that, he'd deviously dragged her into the music room, where he had more condoms strewn about. There, he'd challenged her to sing while he ate her pussy.

"Ya're the best singer I've ever heard," he'd told her. "Ya can stay in tune even as I make ya cum."

She doubted it was true, though, but she hadn't really been listening to herself enough to be able to contradict him. She'd been more worried about the mess they were making on the rug – how the hell was she going to clean it? – But it had been a short lived worry.

"I didn't go huntin'," he'd confessed, panting, after coming one more time. "I went ta Vancouver. I booked this place fer you ta go an' record a CD with all those songs ya've made up fer our Lil' Devil. The Portuguese ones. I wanna have 'em immortalised alongside yer voice."

That had been almost as full-filling as an orgasm. She didn't even care when he peeled off the condom and threw it carelessly aside – not bothering to tie it, which meant it was seeping as much semen onto the floor and carpets as all the others he'd gotten rid of so far – before getting a new one.

"Sing fer me while I fuck ya, will ya?"

That hadn't worked out so well, but she'd blamed it on her stomach being hungry and they'd sprinted to the kitchen, using the gym, which connected the music room to the kitchen, as a shortcut. Except they'd ended up tripping over themselves and spread some more used condoms around.

Once they'd finally managed into the kitchen, they'd eaten a few of the snacks Isabel tried to always keep ready in the fridge and he'd fucked her a couple of times over the counter and the table. Those condoms, however, had been properly disposed of: there was not going to be any fooling around in her kitchen. Then he'd gotten her over his shoulder and had taken her upstairs, saying he was hungry for softer beddings.

All-in-all, three hours of almost non-stop sex.

The few times Victor had been around during her fertile periods, he'd been much less creative. Deep, hard and fast thrusting till he came; franting kissing and biting - sometimes a bit too deeply - till he was hard again. Over and over. Almost more of a mindless animal, not even much interested in her pleasure. While Isabel felt the appeal of his fast rhythm, not to mention the way he moaned and purred, the way he bit her skin and called her name as if he couldn't live withour her, the friction still took a toll on her.

The last couple of times, when he'd knocked her up, she'd used tonnes and tonnes of lube in order to avoid getting too sore too fast. She'd also gotten herself a vibrator to make up for Victor's uninterest in her clit. This time, however! He might still be too intense to think about her when thrusting, but in the intervals he did nothing but focus on her. So much better than a vibrator!

"Nesi!"

"I'm seeing if you are going to do your threat!"

She giggled at his silence. Then giggled harder when he appeared soundlessly at the door of the bathroom, dripping water.

"Ya freakin' cocktease," he grinned as his cock got ready for one more round.

She was sore by now, no doubt about it, but she didn't care. She hadn't become tired of feeling his body on hers yet, even if a little part of her brain suggested she could use a break if she wanted to keep up with him during the night. It was a bit more than three hours, after all. And if they'd emptied a twelve-unit box of condoms and started a new one in three hours… Ok, maybe teasing him was a bad idea. Once she got too sore during the night and told him she needed a break, he'd leave the house and wouldn't return till the morning. She had promised herself she'd make it through the whole night. It was supposed to be part of his birthday present. Officially. In truth, she really just wanted him to see she could keep up with him, that she could fully satisfy him and he didn't need other women.

He rubbed his cock and she beaconed him closer. She'd make it through the night, one way or the other. Instead of joining her in bed, though, Victor went to the front window, the one that connected with the balcony, and opened it wide.

"Victor! What are you doing? It's freezing cold!"

She ran over to close it, but he grabbed her.

"The room needs airing," he told her, picking her up. "And you need a shower if ya wanna have dinner in town."

Fortunately, the bathroom was warm, but still! She forgot to keep on complaining when he switched on the cold water on both of them. She was too busy screaming. He let go of her with a 'shut the fuck up!' and she sprinted out of the wet shower so fast, she tripped and nearly slammed her head on the tiled floor. Which was equally freezing.

"Will ya calm down? Shit! I still got my ears ringin'."

Calm down? She pulled herself to a kneeling position, rubbing her aching elbows, that had heroically saved her nose from getting smashed on the floor, and belted out every obscenity, curse and insult she'd ever heard from the coarsest, most filthy-mouthed rural workers.

Victor crouched in front of her, cautiously out of her reach, and growled lightly.

"Ok. I'll admit I shouldn't have opened the cold water without warnin'. Happy?"

"SORRY!" She shouted in English before returning to the Portuguese, so much more reliable when in a fury. "Is that the fucking word you're looking for, you moth…"

He covered his mouth with a hand and grabbed her head securely. Isabel tried to bite it but she couldn't, so she resorted to slapping his arms furiously.

"Ok, ok!" He grumbled. "I'm sorry I opened the cold water without warnin'. Better now?"

Could he make it sound any more like 'I am not sorry in the slightest'?

He let go of her head with a groaned sigh.

"We're gonna be late if we don't hurry up. Victoria's waitin' fer us."

Oh, so now he was using her baby girl for guilt tripping, huh?

"What the fuck's wrong with that shithead of yours?" She hissed in Portuguese, calmer. "First, you open every fucking window the house, then this?! You're trying to freeze me to death, you cocksuc…?"

"Will ya stop runnin' that filthy tongue?" He growled. "The house needed airin'! Yer scent accumulates inside and when you're in heat it gets so strong, it drives me insane. I can barely think!"

What?

"And I didn't mean nuthin' wi'that cold shower, ok? But I can't go inta town with a fuckin' hard-on, woman, and ya looked like ya had one all yer own. There's nuthin' like a cold shower ta get yer head straight when that happens."

As if he didn't know she hated cold! She took a deep breath to hold back the obscenities that were still dying to come out.

"Lemme see if ya hurt yer a…"

He interrupted himself when Isabel yanked her arm out of his hands.

"I'm _not_ hurt. Was just a stupid fall!" She got up, her knees aching sharply where they had been smashed against the floor. "And I was too cold to feel pain."

She got in the shower and opened the hot water. She should put some ice on both her knees and elbows, she knew, but not in front of him. He still hadn't got inside his thick skull that she was not a porcelain doll. When he bit her hard, for example, he always spent one or two days fawning over the wound, checking if it was healing right, if it hurt… Damn the man!

She heard him getting in the shower with her but did her best to ignore him as coldly as he deserved, even as he embraced her waist and tried to pull her against his body.

"Com'on, Nesi. I said I was sorry, didn't I?"

Oh, yeah. She was supposed to reward his apologies by forgetting her anger faster. Almost against her will, she relaxed her muscles and allowed him better access to her neck, which he started kissing gently.

"Listen," he whispered after biting her earlobe lightly. "What if I have a fireplace added ta the bedroom? An electric one, between the bed an' the window. That way, there won't be a chimney ta suck up any warmth an' the room will feel warmer despite the window bein' cracked open."

She sighed, finally giving up the wrath. If a cold house was the difference between a mindless fucking machine who couldn't care about her pleasure and a playful fucking machine eager to see her come under his ministrations…

"Is a good idea, yeah," she grumbled.

He swirled her around and kissed her mouth deeply. Halfway, she grabbed his hair tight, gripped his shoulder with her wet fingers. They only broke it when his erection became impossible to ignore by both of them.

"Hurry up. I'm gonna need another cold shower."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	69. Creston: Trust and Control

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **69\. Creston: Trust and Control**

Ignoring the turbulence, Isabel looked out the plane window. Every now and then, a huge snaky lake would become visible in between the white mountains. It was her second Spring in British Columbia and she still wasn't used to such a late Spring. April was when people started heading to the beaches and the first wave of Spring flowers gave way to the full colour palette. It was when T-shirts and short sleeved tops replaced the wintery clothes, even if warm coats were still essential for the morning and the evening. But in Creston, Isabel was still wearing woolen sweaters in the evening despite being May.

She glanced at Victor, sitting at her side. He had his eyes closed as if he was taking a nap, but his body was fully tense. She killed a smirk at his obvious discomfort. She had noticed he wasn't a fan of flying on their flight to Portugal and then back again. It had been the slight tension when taking off that had caught her attention. Those flights had been very quiet and he'd acted normally – meaning grumpily – all the way through. This time, though, the plane was going from air pocket to air pocket. It was almost like a ride in a kid's rollercoaster, really! Isabel could agree it was annoying, especially when trying to drink some water or coffee, but it really wasn't so bad that required hanging on to the armrests as if your life depended on it.

She looked out the window again and let out a deep sigh.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," she smiled quickly at him. "I just wish Vancouver was closer to Creston."

"It's just a lil' air turbulence," he grumbled, closing his eyes again. "It ain't gonna kill ya."

She killed a laugh this time. As if she was the one bothered with the bumpy ride. No. It was her baby that made her feel anxious. It was the first time Isabel was going to spend a full weekend away from her daughter, and she would be too far to get home in less than fifteen minutes, too! She still wasn't sure how she'd let Victor convince her to leave the child behind for two full days.

Still, the man was right. Lilia was going to be with Rosie and there wouldn't be any problems at all. It wasn't even the first time she'd spent the night with Rosie so Mamma and Pappa could have an entire night for themselves. It would be fine.

She was still nervous about it, though.

And then there was the surprise.

She already knew she was going to spend a few hours recording her rhymes and nursery songs, but Victor had bought the return ticket for Sunday. Late in the afternoon, on top of it. It was a surprise, he'd said.

She had refused to go anywhere unless he disclosed what the surprise was all about, so she knew it was a fancy dinner. Instead of a hurried one-day getaway for the purpose of recording the rhymes, it was to be above all a two-day getaway eating fresh fish and enjoying the mild temperatures nearer the ocean. No snow whatsoever, he'd promised. Temperatures well above the freezing point, even if nights could get cold. Sure, there might be some rain half the time, but… no snow!

The surprise thing had been fishy. Just to be on the safe side, she had insisted she would still not stay that long unless she could choose her own menu. She knew much too well that Victor Creed did not lift one little finger that was not for his personal advantage – or his daughter's, which amounted to the same – and a getaway supposedly focused on her well-being alone simply had to have ulterior motives. Especially as the focus was supposed to be the recording, not her well-being and he kept insisting it was a weekend all for her pleasure. She just hadn't figured out what it could be.

Until, that is, they arrived at their hotel.

It was a luxurious place covered in marble and golden metal, crystal glittering pretentiously as the staff smiled with professionally courteous nods. Isabel had guessed from her previous life as Irbis the Housekeeper that the man enjoyed indulging in luxury every now and then, something that he couldn't do while away on his job. Guess he'd just wanted company while doing so and had decided to use the recording as the beginning of something upscale. It boosted her ego, nevertheless. He could have come all by himself and picked a fancy top-model escort to keep him happy, all under the excuse of a job, but, instead, he'd chosen her company.

"Let 'em take the bags up," he grinned smugly. "I wanna take ya shoppin'."

Oh, right. This was a repeat of his proposal, wasn't it? He wanted her pimped up so he could show off.

"I want a long dress," she sighed, giving in to his wishes. "And one hour of shopping. No more."

"Sure. Ya gotta be at the studio in two hours anyway!"

Leaving the hotel with his arm protectively over her shoulder, Isabel let herself go and enjoy the attention, even if she knew it was fake. Well, let's not be unreasonable: partially fake. Isabel was sometimes afraid to believe he liked her enough to actually consider her happiness, but… on days like these, with sudden showers bringing out rainbows as they hurried into fancy shops, she did feel like he wanted her happy with no strings attached. It was so easy to forget that she'd told him too often how making her happy could only work to his advantage. He wanted to be spoilt, so he spoiled her first and then could enjoy her lavish attentions. That was all there was to it.

* * *

"Ya look stunnin'!"

And she did! Looking at herself on the mirror of their suite bedroom, there was no denying it. The long dark red dress hugged her waist and made her breasts seem larger than reality, while the long flowing skirt hid the highest heels she'd ever worn. Victor stepped behind her and gently put the gold and rubi necklace he'd bought for her in Lisbon around her neck. He had smuggled the set in his suitcase, but she'd refused to wear the bracelet. The ensemble of necklace and earrings were already too flashy in her opinion. She'd wear the unassuming gold watch he'd also bought her at the time.

"Perfect," he nearly purred, his hands on her naked shoulders sending shivers up and down her spine.

It was almost perfect, yes. The heels were high enough that she didn't look like a dwarf next to him and she felt her confidence hit a new high. She reached a hand behind him to grope his hard ass.

"You look _so_ perfect dat I almost want rip your clodes out."

He laughed and she was aware of how bright her own smile shone at the sound.

They walked out holding hands, but it was short lived. A few seconds before they met other people, he had already slipped his hand away from hers and put it over her shoulder.

Dinner was going to be at the hotel restaurant so she wouldn't catch any cold outside, which meant she didn't even need a coat, just a cashmere wrap in case she felt a chill. And then came the surprise: a large room with sparkling chandeliers and a single table in its middle.

"It's a private room," he explained when she gasped. "I rented it just fer us."

But it wasn't the lavish room that had surprised her, it was the ensemble! One piano, two violins, one viola and one cello. They were playing a rendition of Andrea Bocelli's Con Te Partiro that was simple but still beautiful, the viola replacing the voice of the singer.

"Sing it fer me," he whispered.

She couldn't, though. Her voice was trapped in her throat. He snaked an arm over her waist and pulled her into a slow dance. Victor! The man who seemed to hate dancing! Next came a waltz and they glided through the room as if in a dream.

For a moment, she wondered if he had indeed guessed her birthday. He had soon realised she simply didn't want to tell him the date and had stopped trying to guess, but tonight was May 12 and her birthday was on the 13th. Could this be foreplay for a birthday lunch the following day? But how? Oh! He could have easily found the birthdate of this world's Inês. Could it be then?

When he took her to her chair, she signalled the ensemble head to her side, asked him to play Con Te Partiro again. As Victor sat down, glowing in smug pride, she sang to him as requested. Sweetly and carefully, so she wouldn't forget herself and let her voice boom.

The waiter waited by the door for her to finish and then brought their food, poured champagne into their glasses. It was almost too good to be true.

"So," she finally risked as they started their meal, "What is de occasion? Be honest!"

He shrugged, still grinning from ear to ear.

"I figured it was time I did somethin' grand so ya can gush ta everyone in town how madly in love we are and how perfect our marriage is."

She'd known it. She took a sip from the glass to hide the disappointment.

"I'm thinkin' 'bout doin' somethin' closer ta home in summer. Maybe get a couple violinists and have a romantic dinner at Lena's outdoor area. What d'ya think?"

She swallowed and took a deep breath. Did it really matter, that the intention was showing off? Maybe it didn't. He didn't love her, after all. She was simply the mother of his child.

"Violins are cliché," she said quietly, looking at the entrée on her plate. "A group like dis is probably better. No piano, just de… os instrumentos de cordas?"

"A string ensemble," he nodded. "Ya're right. Wanna be the one plannin' that one?"

She curbed the will to shrug and drop the topic. Instead she sighed and gazed lazily at his beautiful golden eyes.

"Is de third anniversary of our wedding dis July. Is a good reason for a romantic celebration. But de patio is not de best idea; is best to use Lena's private room so no one can get curious and spy us. At de same time, everyone will be curious and talk about it."

He grinned widely, his eyes almost shining.

"I knew ya was gonna like de idea. I was thinkin' we could do random stuff like this at least once a year, ta keep our supposed love story fresh on everyone's mind. Romantic dinners this year an' next one… I don't know. Is skiing romantic?"

Isabel couldn't help chuckling. He had been looking forward to plot cover story conspiracies with her. She shrugged this time.

"You don't want a romantic hunt trip?"

"Huntin' ain't romantic," he shook his head with a frown.

"Sex on a new animal skin dat we hunted togeder is very romantic if you ask me."

He laughed.

"In that case, I'll take a properly tanned skin along. Stinky skins attractin' flies ain't _my_ idea o' romantic."

* * *

When the clock struck midnight, Creed was still dancing with Isabel. She was barefoot by now, those much too high heels long forgotten under the table. He had no idea why she'd gone for those shoes. The woman rarely even wore heels! But she looked beautiful, the greenish spots in her eyes shining in the dimly lit room. Once the dessert was over, the lights had been turned to the lowest possible and candles had been brought in. Violins, candles and dancing: the threesome of the lame romantic clichés. He'd been spot on.

That idea of a romantic hunting trip, though, seemed far more interesting. He was even tempted to forget the dinner wedding anniversary! Isabel had suggested heading to the least touristy area possible so they couldn't be interrupted by pesky hikers. They'd go skinny dipping, eat barely cooked meat, play catch or hide and seek with no clothes, they could play pretend… He'd laughed so hard at that one, but she'd been serious.

"I'm Eve and you're Adam and… we'll see what we can use for de proibited fruit. Something romantic like… a banana!"

"I'm more into peaches," he'd said.

He liked the way her romantic always ended in sex.

"Time for Cinderella run home," Isabel sighed in his arms.

"Why would she wanna run home when she can hop into the prince's bed?"

She laughed, her eyes looking up adoringly at him. That was worth every dumb romantic stupidity of the night and some more.

There was no one anywhere in the hotel corridors, so he grabbed her hand and enjoyed the squeeze she repaid him with, but the moment they entered their suite, she ran off.

"I'll get rid of the make up in five seconds!"

That was all he needed. He opened up the bed and got rid of his own clothes, then lay down. Make-up always took nearly five minutes. She was very careful to remove it all and, afterwards, she always applied organic creams she bought from their neighbour, Leslie. He liked those. The aroma of the natural ingredients was very gentle so it never overpowered the woman's natural scent.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply in. His woman's musky horniness combined beautifully with her sweet scent. He glanced at the door, grinning. She was standing there, waiting. Then she let her dress slide down her body. No underwear.

"Com'ere, ya teasin' devil!"

They kissed eagerly, her hands roaming his body impatiently, his claws finding her neat up-do and breaking her hair free. She moaned when he grabbed a handful of that dark hair and pulled it taught, nibbled her neck.

"Bite me," she demanded.

He suckled her breasts instead, but he did let his fangs scrape against them, which had her arching her back in ecstasy for a moment, until she pushed him away with a hand on his chest.

"How you are going to make sure I'm your Cinderella, oh prince?"

"I got somethin' better than fittin' yer feet in some dumb shoes, that's fer sure."

She laughed and once more demanded he did the required fitting. He was only too happy to oblige.

* * *

"Is fun," Isabel insisted, straddling his stomach. "Is supposed to make your senses more sensible so you feel everything more intensely."

"More sensitive," he growled, "not sensible. And I already got heightened senses; I don't need no extra sensibility."

"Look, try during five minutes, ok? Five minutes. I put de alarm clock. If you don't like, I never mention dis again. Promise."

The woman would never stop whining about it if he didn't give her the five minutes, he guessed. But since she kept her promises…

"Fine."

She got off him in no time. He growled lightly as she prepared the phone to ring after five minutes then went over to get a tie and looked at it thoughtfully. He'd done bonding before, obviously. But it was usually him tying the woman, not the other way around. Five minutes wouldn't kill him anyway. Not to mention he'd have his revenge soon enough.

"Can you just pretend you're tied and can't move your arms?" She walked back to the bed. "I'm thinking I use de tie for de blidnfold, but de bed doesn't have anything where I can tie you."

Well, if he was going to this, he might as well do it right. He got a pillow out of its pillowcase and told her to wrap it around his wrists.

"Then I'll pretend I can't move."

It wasn't as if the fabric was any type of serious restraint. Hell, even a couple of standard handcuffs weren't a serious restraint! But as Isabel carefully put the tie over his eyes and wound it around his head, Creed couldn't help feeling a bit antsy. He had heightened senses and could make do without his eyes, but sight was still a main thing, right alongside his nose.

"Is dis okay?" She asked nervously.

"Get those five minutes countin'," he grumbled.

Instead, she loosened the tie and he blinked up to her anxious expression.

"Look, if you really don't want…"

"Get a move on, woman! Ya get yer five minutes and ya never mention this again, got it?"

She seemed to be regretting it, but she readjusted the tie until he couldn't see anything. He breathed out forcefully, getting ready for whatever crossed that devil's head to do. It wouldn't be easy to pretend his arms were restrained, though. He was already itching to move them.

"Is counting," she whispered.

Almost immediately, he felt her light touch on his stomach. Her fingers raced up his body as if she were playing a keyboard and he breathed in. The lack of vision was speeding up his heartbeat, a spike in adrenaline sharpening his ears and his nose, even his skin. When her trim nails scraped his nipple he lifted his hands off the bed, but then forced them back down.

He could hear her heartbeat, too. Her breathing. But her touch! Touch was the sense he thought about the least, but it was still heightened. Fortunately, that sensibility wasn't spread throughout. He'd have felt pain more intensely too. But there were parts of his body that were incredibly sensitive. His lips, for example, or his underbelly. A skilled prostitute could give him a level of pleasure that most men would never enjoy.

Isabel, however, had no idea what she was doing. She started singing his song in whispers at his ear, then bit his earlobe gently in between lines. The song, though soothing, didn't stop the adrenaline rush. His body was still interpreting the blindness as dangerous.

She brushed her fingertips over his lips and, despite the jolt that travelled up his spine, he reacted with an instinctive growled bite. Fortunately, her fingers hadn't dallied behind. Still singing, she ran her fingers down his body and grabbed a hold of his cock. The moment she cooed she'd die in his arms, she started sucking him.

There was pleasure in it. He couldn't say there wasn't. But he was still uncomfortable, his senses in the alert, his claws itching to slide out. Half his mind was on the lookout for danger, ready to go into fighting mode… or fleeing mode. However, the other half was busy thrusting into that sweet mouth eating him up. In between the two, though, he couldn't fully appreciate her handywork. Or mouthwork.

Her teeth grazed lightly over his shaft and his claws really did come out, even if he loved the feeling. But he was too wound up by the adrenaline to come and the damned alarm clock finally went off.

He sat up immediately, getting rid of the pillow case and the tie. He was suddenly aware his breathing was coming out ragged. Isabel switched off the alarm.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't…"

She interrupted herself with a light frown when she turned to him. He didn't know what had stopped her, but he didn't care.

"My turn," he growled, grabbing her by an arm and throwing her onto the bed.

Before she could turn around and welcome his sudden need for roughing it, Creed wrapped the tie around her eyes.

"No, Victor!"

"Oh, shut up," he growled. "It's my turn now."

The pillowcase was shred into uselessness, so he simply grabbed both her wrists in one hand and pinned them to the bed.

"It's time fer _your_ senses ta get stretched a bit."

"Não, Veetohr! Pára!"

He paused for a moment, surprised by the intense fear rolling off her. But even as she kept on saying no and stop it, he couldn't understand why she was flailing in bed like crazy when she'd spent almost half an hour extolling the advantages of light bondage and blindfolds.

"Will ya knock it off, woman? I ain't gonna hurt ya."

He had – truth be told – thought about making it a bit on the unpleasant side as revenge for putting him through the discomfort of the blindfold, but he had had no idea of hurting her.

Isabel stopped thrashing and stood very still, fear still much too strong. Carefully, he let a claw slide up her thigh and the fear skyrocketed again, which didn't make any sense: she loved when he dragged his claws up her thighs. She loved it even when he accidentally broke skin!

Determined to get her out of that scared mindframe, he suckled gently on her breast but he only got a choked 'no' in Portuguese before she started shivering uncontrollably and crying in earnest.

She was blowing this over every limit! Growling, he loosened the tie and pulled her to a sitting position.

"What the hell's wrong with ya?"

But even as he said it, he could see how hurt and terrified her eyes were. What the hell? He softened the pressure on her wrists.

"Calm down, Nesi. Ya know I'd never hurt ya."

Fear flashed into anger and she screamed at him, tried to hit him even though he was still holding her wrists.

"Stop it!" And he pushed her down onto the bed. "Quit actin' like a craz…"

"Foi o que _eles_ me fizeram!" She screamed again. "Larga-me!"

It was what they had done to her? What?

"Larga-me!"

"No," he swapped her wrists for her arms and shook her lightly. "I ain't lettin' ya go till ya explain what the hell is wrong with ya! An' _stop_ screamin'!"

" _Eles_ nunca me deixavam ver!" She spit through clenched teeth. "Porque é que achas que eu não gosto de estar às escuras? _Eles_ tapavam-me os olhos sempre que… Como é que foste capaz!"

It started dawning on him what she was talking about. He had noticed she didn't like being completely in the dark, but… there are lots of people who don't like absolute darkness. But _they_ had never let her see. _They_ blindfolded her every time… Creed knew the torture was done so she could see everything that was being done to her. She'd mentioned that once or twice, back when he was still keeping her in Mexico. Which meant they had blindfolded her every time they'd raped her. Shit.

"Larga-me!"

This time he did let go of her. Anger bubbled up, though.

"Then why the hell did ya wanna play at blindfolds?"

The glare she shot him was of pure disgust and it cut him to the core. In slow, poison dripping Portuguese, she explained she'd wanted to make it pleasurable for _him_. That she wanted to slowly become confident enough to tackle that last fear of hers. She wanted to see his pleasure so she could tell herself that blindfolds equal fun and pleasure, and then… then.

"Why didn't ya tell me?"

"Porque eu sei que tu odeias falar do assunto!"

Of course he hated talking about her rape! That was no excuse, though. She could have let him in on her plan.

"Well, ya should have told me about it!" He roared. "I wouldn't have…"

She rolled out of bed with a strangled noise that afflicted him and he reacted automatically, grabbing hold of her wrist.

"Larga-me!" She hissed. "Eu não te suporto!"

He didn't let got. Instead, he pulled her back onto the bed, both angered and hurt by the idea she couldn't stand him.

"It was _your_ fault," he growled. "Ya should'ave told me!"

The woman's gaze was at a level of anger beyond anything he'd seen on her. Not even in that fight back in Portugal, when he'd accidentaly used her Nesi nickname, not even when he'd given her that surprise cold shower, never had she been this livid.

Her voice dropped to a hoarse hiss, echoing his accusation in Portuguese. Each sentence that followed, though, felt like a slap: she had asked for his permission, he hadn't asked for hers; he had said it was ok, she hadn't; she had given him a chance to walk out of it, he hadn't… If he had wanted to stop it, he could have said so, or simply broken free. Instead, she had been pinned by him in a way she could never have escaped. She'd begged him to stop! What exactly had been her fault?

Okay. Putting it in that way made it look bad on his side. He could see that. But she had still been the one to start the whole blindfold thing!

"Larga-me."

He once more resisted her command and didn't let go.

"Ya gotta take it eas…"

"Pára!" He did stop but only because her shout had startled him. "Pára com o inglês!"

What did stop speaking in English had anything to do with this? Whether it was because of his confusion or not, she explained it while trying to get rid of his grip on her wrist. She could feel their touch on her, right now. His touch felt like her rapists'. His voice sounded like her rapists'. His words! His blood ran cold as she repeated some of their insults and threats, their taunts. His blood froze in place as she said she didn't want to see him, hear him, feel him.

She escaped his now lax fingers and hurried into the bathroom, locked herself in.

"You are them and they are you," she had said, and the Portuguese words echoed inside his brain as the full consequences of his actions hit him.

"You are them and they are you."

* * *

Crouching by the bathroom door, Creed heard Isabel cry her heart out. She hadn't cried that way since Mexico. Since those days in his cabin, before he'd knocked her up. It was like having an electric saw cutting him inside. He wanted to hold her tight and make her feel safe, but… he couldn't.

She hated him.

He had spent so long… so, _so_ long getting back her love and devotion after he'd messed up when Victoria had been born, and now…

It occurred to him he'd messed up even worse this time.

He reminded her of her rapists. How could he make her feel safe and protected when he reminded her of her attackers?

The idea sickened him.

He remained by that bathroom door still like a statue as her sobs calmed down. He remained there till there was nothing but silence. Till he couldn't hold back anymore. Creed got up and tried the handle. Locked, as if he didn't know. With a twisting motion, he broke the handle then kicked the door in. Fear filled the bathroom immediately and he took a step back, looked away from her, sitting by the sink.

"I didn't mean ta…" he mumbled, no idea what to say. "I just…"

The fear started fading and he stole a glance at her. She had put on one of those white bathrobes and was embracing her knees.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "I'm sorry."

Fresh tears started flowing down her cheeks and he came closer, crouched before her.

"Don't cry, Nesi! Lemme comfor…" Not English, stupid asshole! "Dejame consolarte, mi Nesita."

He outstretched a hand to touch her, but pulled back at the last moment. Never again would he play fast and lose when she told him not to touch her. Never again.

"Dejame tocarte. Te hare segura de nuevo, mi Nesita. Te lo prometo!"

He'd do anything to make her feel safe in his arms again. Anything! If only she'd let him touch her.

"Nesi, mi Nesita. Dejame tocarte, Nesi!"

She looked up at him and her haunted eyes were worse than adamantium blades going through his chest.

"Perdoname!" He asked desperately, because if she didn't forgive him…

"As desculpas não calam os meus pesadelos," she said tiredly, detached.

Sorries didn't shush her nightmares! Creed got up and stepped away from her to keep himself from touching her without first getting her permission. Why had he been so stupid? Why! She'd never refused his touch before. Never! And now… he'd ruined everything. She'd never… The thought made him almost physically sick.

"No me odies," he breathed weakly.

She couldn't hate him. She couldn't! He went back to her and crouched, nearly cupped her face in his hand.

"Dime que todavia me amas, Nesita!"

But instead of reassuring him she still loved him, she covered her face with her hands and started crying again.

He couldn't stop himself. He put a hand on her arm, and insisted that she let him touch her.

"Puedo? Nesi, puedo?"

She nodded that he could and he pulled her into a desperate embrace, swearing and promising he'd never do it again, that no was no and stop was stop and never, ever, ever…

* * *

The morning woke grey and rainy.

Isabel had slept fitfully for a few hours, the nightmares as intense as they'd been years ago, and he'd kept whispering to her in Spanish, calling her true name – Inês – and promising she was safe. He'd keep her safe.

Eventually, she'd given up on sleep and had gone for a shower. Letting the hot water wash over her and those phantom hands.

"Hey," he called out softly from the bathroom door.

She didn't look at him, though.

"I asked 'em ta bring up some breakfast."

She nodded and let the water keep rushing over her skin.

"D'ya want some company in there?"

His voice was closer and she quickly shook her head. It was weird. On the one hand, she felt safe in his strong arms, holding on to his hard frame. On the other hand… he could do it again. Keep on doing what he wanted and ignore her pleas to stop. He'd done it once, he could do it again. Over all these years… three. It had been three years ago she'd been taken and tortured. Over those three years, not once had she thought he might break her trust in this way.

A knock on the door startled her out of her reverie. Even though she didn't feel hungry, she switched off the water and dried herself, put on a robe. Victor was anxiously waiting for her.

Never had he apologised before. Not meaning it, that is. He had grumbled a forced sorry on occasion, but… the one time he meant his apology, it was over something so bad that she couldn't accept it and reward him for the progress. The irony made her want to cry.

"What d'ya wanna eat first?"

He sat down at the table and motioned for her to sit on the chair beside him.

"I asked fer yer milk an' coffee, an' some bread too. Except they didn't have the homemade type ya like. Next time, I'll warn 'em in advance so they can get some. I asked fer peaches an' strawberries, too. They ain't the best since it's still early fer 'em, but… would ya like some pancakes?"

She sat down and grabbed the glass of milk, poured in some coffee. She really didn't feel like she could swallow anything down, though.

"I want go home," she said weakly, trying to hold back more tears.

She was so tired of crying – it only made her feel weaker. A frail who deserved no respect.

"Sure. I'll get us an earlier fligh…"

He interrupted himself when she shook her head.

"I don't want…" She swallowed down and breathed out the weepiness inside her. "I don't want go inside de airport."

It was too crowded, too…

"'Course not! I'll get us a car. It's a nice trip, anyway. Much better than all that turbulence an' the prolonged checked in and all that. Definitely better views! And we can stop wherever ya want."

An outrageously long trip, too. How long had he said it was? Ten hours? Isabel got up with a sigh, saying she'd start packing.

"Ain't ya gonna eat nuthin'?"

"I'm not hungry," she said, her back to him.

"I'm sorry, ok? I'm sorry! I din't mean… I'm _sorry_."

She knew. She knew he was really, really sorry. That he was afraid she'd stop loving him because of his foul blunder. It was her biggest attraction in his eyes, wasn't it? No one had ever loved him – probably – and now he had a woman who looked at him adoringly, sang devotedly to him and loved him. For as long as he hungered for that love of hers, she'd be safe with him. The fear of losing her would keep him in check. Unless he forgot himself again, that is.

Nevertheless, she should give him a little bone to reward his eagerness to make it up to her.

"I know you're sorry," she said in Portuguese. "But… the ghosts need time to fade away."

Once – it had been in Dallas, if she was not mistaken – he'd told her that ghosts and demons never really go away. They just get weaker and less intrusive. Now she knew that, even if those ghosts of hers were to apparently vanish, they'd still be waiting in hiding. Waiting for something to trigger them to their full strength in an instant.

* * *

Sitting by her baby girl's bed, Isabel started yet another song. The child was fast asleep by now, but she was still delaying the inevitable. The previous three nights had been very bad, in terms of nightmares, and even though there was strength and safety in Victor's arms, there was also danger and she… she just wanted to delay bedtime a little longer. Just a little longer.

"Hey," she jumped at his voice, the jolt of fear no doubt making it to his nose. "I didn't mean ta startle ya. Sorry."

He was dropping sorries left and right. In three days, he had probably apologised more than in a century! But she knew he could sense her fear… maybe fear wasn't the best word. But he could certainly feel she didn't trust him the way she had. That she was waiting for his next… attack was, again, not the best word but… yeah, waiting for his next attack.

"I got somethin' fer you."

He outstretched a hand and she forced herself to accept it. Whatever he had for her, had involved drilling for hours. The man had left on Monday and Tuesday nearly all day long and had returned late. That day, though, he had said he needed to do some maintenance in their bedroom and had spent the day drilling and hammering. As he dragged her to their bedroom, she had to fight the dread that bubbled to her throat and tightened her chest. What had he been preparing?

He pulled her into the bedroom and led her to the bed. There were two weird cylindric containers made of metal on the bed, each one crowned by a chain that disappeared under the headboard.

"It's a special set o' handcuffs," he explained. "The chain is attached t' the wall an' the floor under the bed at six different points each fer extra resistance. I can break free from them, but it ain't easy. It'd take hours o' pullin' and, since I'll be on my back, I won't be in a good position ta really put my strength into it."

Isabel frowned, not getting it.

"Here, I'll show ya how ta lock and unlock 'em."

It was a button near the place where the chains were. To lock, it took only pushing the button in. Once it reached a certain point, the button itself receded into a little hole all by itself. To unlock, you had to insert something to press the button and it would lift up again.

"That way, the handcuffed person can't push the button 'emself."

She still didn't understand… Victor started undressing and she stood there looking at him. Then he lay down on the bed, face up, and inserted his hands in the things.

"Ya can lock 'em. There's a blindfold on the bedside table, a proper one. Put it on me after ya lock 'em."

But she didn't move. With a frustrated grunt he maneuvered the things and pushed the buttons against the headboard of the bed, told her to get the blindfold.

"Why are you doing this?" She asked in Portuguese.

"Ya were right. I was never really bound, but ya were. Now ya can have yer revenge on me."

Bile came up to her throat.

"I don't want revenge! Do you think I want to see you hurting? Really? I wanted to do something different, something that… that made the night great for you. For both of us. I really thought… I saw you didn't like it. I was going to apologise when you… God! How can you be so stupid!"

"I'm sorry!" He tried to sit up but he was bound, so he just dropped his head back with a growl, shook his head. "I don't like bein' blindfolded. I don't like bein' blind. And I hate being trapped. Even if it's only with you. I don't like bein'…"

At the mercy of others?

Isabel grabbed the blindfold and got rid of her shoes, got on the bed to straddle his waist.

"Do you want this?"

He nodded once, determinedly, as she showed him the black blindfold. She threw it away.

"Tough. Do you know what you deserve? You deserve that I use you for my pleasure and leave you hanging dry. You deserve to be left there for a week, ignored and abandoned."

His face was a mask of hardened tension.

"But I'm not like you."

She slid down to his legs and grabbed his cock, swallowed it down. She had tears in her eyes as she tried her best to give head to him, not to the ghosts in her memories, but it wasn't easy. It really wasn't easy. She shut her eyes tight and forced the memories away, forced everything away.

"Inês! INÊS!"

She let go of him to look at his worried expression, and it was only then she realised she had tears streaming down her face.

"Cut me lose."

Sniffing and rubbing her cheeks dry, she obeyed. The moment she pushed the buttons, he embraced her, kissed her face and neck.

"I'm sorry," he hissed. "I just wanted ya ta be in control. It's all 'bout control, ya see? What they did t'you… it wasn't 'bout sex nor nuthin', it was just strippin' ya of control over yerself. It's a form o' torture like any other, extra bonus if ya can cause as much physical pain as possible without damagin' the goods."

She couldn't hold back the sobs at that point and he held her tight, promising she'd be ok. Everything would be ok.

When Isabel finally calmed down, he cupped her face and looked her in the eyes.

"Let's fix this once an' fer all. What did they use ta restrain ya?"

She didn't want to go back to the memories, but he insisted, promised it would help get rid of it all, so she said it had been handcuffs. He kissed her forehead before going to their walk-in closet and returning with a couple of cashmere scarves. Then he helped her lie down on the bed, gently placed her hands above her head. Her heart racing wildly, she stood still as he placed a scarf under her wrists and then caressed them with the extremities of the fabric.

"It don't feel nuthin' like yer memories, does it?"

She shook her head silently, then he put the other scarf on top, the soft fabric engulfing her wrists.

"That is your restraint," he explained. "It ain't tied t'nuthin' and ya can lift yer hands whenever ya feel like it. It's you who decides; it's you who has absolute control. Got it?"

She nodded and he sat on the bed besides her.

"Ruth had a couple o' girls who did the BDSM thing, an' she set out the rules fer me."

Ruth! That was the whore he'd talked about before. It brought burning tears of frustration to Isabel's eyes. After three years of abandoning his old life, he still remembered the damned whore!

"Now take it easy, woman, an' listen t'the whole thing. BDSM ain't 'bout damagin' the goods, ok? I mean, the girls. When ya hurt 'em, it boosts up their adrenaline an' they become more sensitive, it makes 'em feel more pleasure. It ain't fer everyone, though, and it's supposed ta be all about trust. The sub has gotta feel the dom ain't gonna take it too far, that he'll stop whenever she wants. That means she's got control over the whole thing. D'ya understand?"

Isabel nodded, unsure of what he wanted to do.

"At the end, there's this big emotional crash so the dom is supposed ta care fer the sub an' cuddle up an' crap. I never did that. That's why I always had a pair. They did the cuddlin' 'emselves and I only joined in if I felt like it. That was the deal the girls 'emselves agreed to."

She nodded again, the uncertainty keeping her heartbeat high.

"The whole thing is supposed ta be scripted, too. I was never one ta follow scripts, so the only thing that was agreed upon 'fore a session was what I was gonna use on 'em – whether it was a whip or a ruler or my claws or whatever – an' the safe words. Orange fer slowin' down; red ta stop it altogether. They were professionals an' they were into the hardcore thing, so they could handle the improvisation."

She breathed in, unable to nod, this time. What exactly did he want to do?

"The dom can be called lots o' stuff, but I liked 'em callin' me Sir. I was always the one in charge, obviously. They were my bunny slaves."

Isabel clenched her teeth to hold back the humilliation. What did she care about his professionally expert bunny slave whores?

"But that's too crude fer you. I was thinkin' I could be… It's just fer tonight, anyways. I'll be yer knight, if ya want, and you'll be my Queen."

Wait… what?

"I mean knight as in caballero. You know, King Arthur and his knights o' the Round Table. I'll do anythin' ya order me ta do, my Queen, as yer loyal, steadfast knight. Command, and I'll obey. That kinda stuff."

Was he saying he was willing to let her be the master while he was playing the slave?

"It's 'bout control," he explained again. "Ya're restrained but only fer as long as you want to. And whatever I do to you, it'll be only what _you_ decide I do. Nuthin' more. D'ya wanna try it?"

Isabel swallowed and nodded quietly.

"What will ya have me do?"

She didn't know what to say, though.

"D'ya want me to undress ya?"

Oh, right. She was still fully clothed. She nodded but he growled lightly and shook his head.

"Ya gotta order me around, Nesi."

"Uh…" She didn't know. "Undress me."

"Tell me how ya want me ta do it, my Queen."

Ok. Isabel closed his eyes and took a deep breath. She understood what he meant, what he was trying to do.

"Use your claws and rip my clodes out."

He grinned, but then he nodded solemnly before doing as told. Isabel's breathing became ragged as the cool air of the bedroom came in contact with her naked skin, bit by bit.

"De fireplace," she said, almost shivering.

He interrupted his handy work to switch on the electric fireplace, and waited a bit for the heat to be more pronounced before bringing out his claws again.

"All done, my Queen. May I be so bold as ta beg fer a kiss?"

Isabel chuckled nervously. She wasn't sure what the bold part meant, but she knew that Victor begging for a kiss was out of character in the extreme.

"No," she looked him in those beautiful eyes of his. "I want dat you make de world go away."

He hesitated.

"That'll put me in control," he said quietly. "It means ya're abandonin' yerself in my hands. Ya gotta tell me _exactly_ what ya want me ta do. That's how ya'll stay in control."

Ok, she nodded. It made sense.

"Use your tongue. No kissing. Just your tongue and… and your fangs. Eat me out till I come."

"As ya wish, my Queen."

* * *

 _And this was when Creed finally learned the importance of consent. And got used to apologising for minor things like any normal person._

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	70. Creston: Normal And Less than Normal Day

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **70\. Creston: Normal And Less than Normal Days**

"I don't know, Isabel. I just don't know!"

Sitting on a wooden bench in the yard, Isabel put a hand over Amber's shoulders and gave her what she hoped was a comforting squeeze.

"I just miss him so much! The way he used to be. He was so… he was never the cheerful type, true; but he used to…" She lowered her voice to a whisper. "When his shift finished at night, he used to come home and wake me with a kiss. Now he gets in bed and is carefully to not even touch me. He doesn't _touch_ me, Isabel!"

Isabel sighed and hugged her.

From her friend's twenty-minute long venting, it was clear that the passion between Don and Amber was going through an Ice Age. Unfortunately, Amber was afraid to confront the man and ask for an explanation. What if he said he was tired of her and wanted a divorce so he could get together with a mistress? She'd die! Her fears were fanned up by the fact that Frances was officially dating Lex, a nurse at Angie's clinic, but was also secretly meeting with Kirk Matchett, whom Isabel actually knew, as he worked for his father at Erickscapes and had been working on the meadow garden just two weeks ago. Amber was sure that Don's uninterest was related to another woman, and as much as she nodded when Isabel pointed out other possible explanations, she was so sure, she didn't actually listen.

As Isabel heard her friend sniff, she shush-shushed softly.

"Not in front of de children. You have to be strong for your daughter."

Amber nodded and undid her messy ponytail, remade it carelessly.

"No, Lilia! That's not the white basket. It's here. Look: yellow, white. See?"

Little Willow, wearing her Cinderella dress, showed a white daisy to Lilia and explained:

"White. The white flower goes in the white basket."

She was two years older than Isabel's little girl and she was very organised, with a penchant to act like a mother hen to younger children.

"No," Lilia grumbled. "Ye'w."

And she started moving all the white daisies to the yellow basket, which had mostly dandelions. Willow tried to stop her, but Lilia nearly bit the girl's hand with a sound that Isabel was afraid sounded a lot like a growl. She got up immediately.

"Mummy!"

Isabel was next to the two girls before Amber could as much as answer her daughter. Stubborn as usual, Lilia insisted the daisy was yellow.

"Where's de yellow, my love?"

She pointed at the eye of the flower.

"But I see white too. Can you see white? Where it is?"

She pointed again.

"Dat is de colour dat counts, my love. De eye is yellow, but de petal is white. Look at de dente-de-leão." And she picked up a dandelion. "See? De petals are yellow. Dis is de basket for de flowers wid yellow petals, and dis for white petals. White petals, ok?"

Going back to Amber, Isabel offered to brush her hair and make a cheerful hairdo. She needed to be less careless with her appearance, as she was sure that only made the woman feel worse about her self-worth, imagining that any woman looked prettier and more inviting.

"Like a homemade spa widout water and massage, just de hair."

That got her friend laughing and asking if she was being brainwashed by Leslie and her homemade products made of homegrown ingredients.

Isabel shook her head with a snort.

"I'm de one dat brainwashed her. You know I'm very picky wid olive oil. Extra virgin only and wid dat specific colour and taste." Amber rolled her eyes while nodding she knew. "Well, my grandmoder Lilia had dis recipe for skin dat involved honey and olive oil wid some herbs inside. Leslie loved de result so much, dat she's developing a complete range of products based on olive oil wid specific medicinal plants. We got togeder and forced Ophelia, in de Canyon store, to start getting my brand of choice. Now I'm working to convince Ivy and Kate to start using it too, but dat will be easy because I already converted Aubrey, and Ursula Garth is almost convinced. I tried de Skinners, too, but dey said isn't period so dey can't use it in deir historical reenactments."

Amber sighed, seemingly distracted from her worries, and commented that the couple was so strange. They had recently started going everywhere wearing the clothes people wore centuries ago.

"One of these days, they'll buy a wagon and stop using cars. Then they'll become Mormons!"

Although Isabel had no idea what Mormons were, she laughed and said they probably weren't period either. But then she saw Lilia heading to her strawberry beds.

"Lilia Victoria! De strawberries are not ready to eat! Go pick more flowers. Go!"

"You did a wonderful job with this garden," Amber said with a defeated sigh.

"I?! You mean de Matchetts." Her friend frowned and Isabel explained. "Danny Matchett? Owner of Erickscapes? Dey helped choose everything, said where is de best soil and light for everything, and when is de time to plant and trim and prune and… everything! But de strawberries are looking beautiful. Come here!"

She dragged her friend to boast over the tiny berries. Isabel had chosen the Alpine variety because the fruit was smaller and she had always found smaller ones to be tastier.

"Dey resist cold weader better, too. I picked de first two yesterday morning, but I'm going to let dey all ripe as much as possible bebore I pick de rest. When Victor comes back from his job, I am going to have a dessert made wid our own fruit."

Then she showed her the blackberry shrubs.

"When I was a kid, my broder and I always went to dis… what's de word in English… silvas, you know, bushes wid thorns. Dey were wild and grew like weed in bits of land dat wasn't cultivated, and all spring and summer and fall dey were full wid blackberries. Oh, how I miss dat! But at least my daughter will know what is like to come out and eat blackberries straight from de plant! I think I like dem more dan strawberries!"

Isabel noticed Amber's sad face and hugged her, tried to get some energy into her mind.

"Why don't you plant some fruit trees too, Amber? I'm sure you will love growing _your_ _own_ things."

Maybe focusing on something else that wasn't her husband might actually help. Isabel suspected that Amber might be clingy around Don, and Victor had told her the man liked to keep a healthy distance from everyone, even supposed friends. He couldn't possibly like his wife turning clingy. Oh, another distraction!

"Hey, you want help me wid de church picnic for Victoria Day? I offered me to make meat and fish croquettes and I could use a hand.

Amber shook her head lightly, claiming she wasn't a Catholic so it probably wasn't right to…

"Don't be silly, woman! You could be muslim and hindu and… buddhist! All at de same time. Is de eating and fun dat is important. Now, let's tell de girls to count all dat flowers and let's go to Canyon Park to say hi to Aubrey. De Stevens and de Hilkins kids must all be dere and Lilia loves playing wid dem."

"Yes, we could have some ice-cream," Amber sighed.

"But before dat," Isabel grinned mischievously. "Hair spa. You do my hair and I do your."

* * *

Debbie Hilkins, who was nine years old, had been playing with her little cousin Wendy and with another girl who lived near the park, Faith Butcher. Wendy was Lilia's age, while Faith was a year older, but they were both sweet girls who enjoyed some running about, as well as quieter games. Willow was very happy to be welcomed by the group, and Debbie quickly organised a round dance where they had to fall down onto the ground when they heard a certain word.

"My Debbie," said Aubrey, who was the grandmother of both the Hilkins and the Stevens kids, "is going to be a nursery teacher one day. She's so good with the children! Would you like some iced tea, Amber?"

No wonder. Isabel knew that she had been charged with babysitting her younger brother since day one by her father. Apparently, he deemed her responsible for anything that might happen involving the boy. But at least she didn't have to worry about him while in the park since the boy was under their grandma's supervision.

Lilia was playing tag with the four-year-old Matt Hilkins and his cousins Trevor and Lionel Stevens, not to mention Bennie Butcher. Trevor and Bennie were the oldest at five, while Lionel was the youngest, being one month away from turning four; nevertheless, Matt bossed the three around as if he were the oldest. Lilia adored him! Unfortunately, she was very eager to learn from Matt how to boss around the other boys, too. Trevor, being older and taller, didn't suffer that much, but Lionel was constantly running away from her. Which, even more unfortunately, triggered her wretched instinct to run after him and bite him, which Matt thought hillarious.

Aubrey ran a little café in the park, near the picnic tables, selling packed snacks and cool drinks, and was constantly telling the children to stay within the boundaries. She had surrounded the picnic area with a yellow strip and said they could go anywhere within that line, which meant she could focus on her few clients without worrying that the kids might run off and get into trouble. Sitting next to Amber, Isabel had a good view of the children and saw how Bennie pushed little Lionel to the ground to make it easier for Lilia to catch him, which she promptly did by jumping onto his back and biting his T-shirt.

"Grandma!" He squealed, as Isabel got up to put an end to it.

"Matt Hilkins," Aubrey shouted without even turning around, "leave your cousin alone!"

That had Matt and Bennie laughing and, before Isabel had had time to take two steps in their direction, the six year old Trevor started pulling Lilia off his little brother. Matt tackled him like a bulldozer and both rolled over the dirt, which had Lilia off the younger boy and jumping onto the other two, gleefully trying to bite Trevor.

"Enough!" Isabel said in Portuguese, getting her daughter away from the wrestling boys, a second after she'd got an elbow strike to her face.

It amazed Isabel that she never cried or complained when the boys accidentally hit her in rough games. Most of the time she acted as if she hadn't even felt it.

"No more biting, Lilia Victoria. Or you'll sit on that bench with me for the rest of the day. Do you understand? No biting."

The other two boys had quieted at the telling off in a foreign language. When Isabel looked at them, Trevor had the humillity of looking ashamed for his action but Matt looked brazenly at her.

"We were just playing, Mrs Kredall."

"Come on," an annoyed Debbie joined Isabel's side with her two-year-old cousin Wendy by the hand. "Grandma said we have to play Simons Says now. I'm Simon."

"Fuck, no!" Matt snapped. "You're always Simon! I…"

"Matt Hilkins," Isabel said in her coldest voice. "You want pepper in dat tongue and a wash wid soap again?"

The boy slumped and lowered his voice.

"No, Mrs Kredall. I'm sorry."

Aubrey had mentioned that Miles Hilkins found it amusing when the boy cursed. Except, of course, when he went over a limit and got a couple of slaps to teach him contention.

"Simon says sit down," Debbie started, and the children all complied. "Simon says wink your left eye. No, Wendy, that's the right eye. It's the other one. Here, I'll help you."

Isabel returned to the picnic table as Debbie defended the little girl's right to keep on playing while Trevor and Matt claimed she had lost.

"He's a handful," Amber shook her head lightly.

"With that father of his," Aubrey grumbled as the Lacey's teenage girls left with freshly bought sodas.

The game didn't last very long. Soon, Freddie, Leslie's dog, showed up. The animal had been runover once and was lame because of it, but he still roamed freely. Leslie wasn't in favor of restricting the freedom of living beings. The moment the children saw him, they sped to the yellow limit and excitedly called the dog over. Shortly afterwards, the dog was playing a far more peaceful game of tag with the lot, even if the children were all shouting excitedly.

"The only good thing he does is taking them to Harland Harper's house," Aubrey carried on talking about her son-in-law. "His children are sweethearts, and their cousins are adorable. My Debbie loves playing with Marianne Clemens and Matt has enough respect for Harland to keep his tongue in check."

Except during Becka Harper's birthday party, in May. Actually, it hadn't been more than three weeks before. Little Matt had told someone to fuck off. Unfortunately for him, Harland Harper had heard him and had become livid. He'd grabbed the boy and taken him to the garage, saying he was driving him immediately back to his father's house. Because Miles, obviously, hadn't stuck around to put up with the children. Aubrey had been upset, saying Miles would spank him, but Harland had said it was precisely what the child needed: a good, hard spanking.

Isabel hadn't yet known what the English word 'spank' meant. It was much too close to the Portuguese 'espancar', which means a hell of a beating, and she had been so shocked with the ease they were talking about it that she'd gone after them into the garage and had grabbed the man by an arm with such strength he'd stopped and taken a step back.

"Harland Harper," she'd said imperiously, "Give me dat boy right now."

She wasn't sure if he'd let her take Matt from his arms because of her unexpected stand or because Victor had come after her. It made no nevermind.

"You have soap and water in de garage?" She'd asked him, looking down on him with disgust.

He'd pointed at a working counter that had a sink and Isabel had turned to Aubrey.

"Go ask Doris pepper. De more strong pepper she has and hurry."

Matt was holding on to her neck as if his life depended on it, but she'd gently peeled his arms off her as he sat him on the counter next to the sink. The moment Aubrey had returned, she'd put the pepper on his tongue and had then washed it with soap through his tears and bawling.

"Sheew," she'd shushed. "Now you listen me good, Matt Hilkins. When you say bad words, you get pepper and soap. You understand? What happens when you say bad words?"

Once he'd repeated the consequence three times, she'd told him he was going to go inside and tell every person, one by one: 'sorry I said a bad word; I never repeat'. Before she'd taken him to perform his penance, though, she'd once more faced Harland. Standing inches away from his face, she'd looked him in the eye.

"Dis is how you fix a dirty tongue, _not_ wid spankings. And you are _not_ going to tell his fader one word of what happened here. Is dat clear, Mr Harper?"

She'd waited a second before taking the boy by the hand, Aubrey following nervously. Isabel knew Victor had remained in the garage with the man for some time longer. While she hoped she'd impressed some sense into his head, she also expected that Victor's delay meant he was pushing in the wisdom of doing as she'd instructed.

It had only been back at home that Victor had explained to her what the English word 'spanking' meant.

"But speaking of the Clemens," Aubrey carried on, "will you be singing at the girls' birthday party, too?"

Isabel shrugged.

"Yes, I suppose I have to."

Isabel had sung at Becka Harper's birthday party almost by accident. Doris Harper and her sister being friends with Lena, they'd invited her and Rosie, but Rosie had decided to surprise the little guests – mostly girls – by showing up dressed as Queen Elsa and singing a dozen Disney songs. Isabel had helped her prepare for the show, so she knew the lyrics and, halfway through… Isabel didn't even know how it had happened! All she knew was that she was bringing more food to the table one minute, and the next she was singing duets with Rosie.

Doris's sister, Loreen Clemens, had been swarmed by her two daughters – Marianne and Lexis – who were set to have a joint birthday party in October, since one had been born on the 19th and the other on the 23rd. Rosie and Isabel were unable to refuse showing up dressed as Disney princesses and sing a few songs. Marianne, who would be turning five then, spent the rest of the party jumping at Rosie's and Isabel's necks and kissing them, reminding them that she would be Elsa, ok? They could be Anna and Belle and Snow White and… but _she_ was Elsa!

Aubrey sighed, said Debbie was heart-broken. The girl's birthday was also in October, on the 6th, to be exact, but Miles had heard the child talking to her mother, asking for a Disney princess concert too, like her friends.

"Do you know what that heartless man said? That she was turning ten years old. She was no longer a baby and only babies need birthday parties. So now she isn't even supposed to have a party!"

"He can't do that!" Amber sat straight, furious. "Oh, I'm going to…!"

Do nothing. What could anyone do? Report him to the authorities for not allowing a birthday party while encouraging his young boy to curse freely? Yeah, right.

Aubrey looked back at the children. The younger ones were trying to ride Freddie but he either lay down very quietly on the floor till they got off or he ran away before they could get on top of him. Willow, Faith and her brother Bennie were playing together, farther away from the dog, collecting flowers and leaves then setting them down in a tidy little pile… which the breeze occasionally blew apart and forced the children to rearrange. Debbie, on the other hand, was playing at mummies with her cousin Wendy. The two-year-old girl sat quietly on the ground as the nine-year-old explained that she was going to comb her hair, but her hair was all knotted so you have to complain and say 'no, no', ok? There wasn't even a real brush for Debbie to use.

Isabel frowned.

"Amber, you want organise an activity for our club in de beginning of October? Something fun, just for friends, and dey can bring deir children. Something in Sunday afternoon. Miles usually spends Sunday wid his friends, right?"

Aubrey nodded that he often met with Ben Porter, up in Wynndel. Yes, Isabel knew. Kate, his wife, was always relieved to spend that day in peace. God rested on the seventh day, and so did she, Isabel had heard Kate say.

"What you think is a good topic for our first concert, hun?"

Amber pretended to be thoughtful.

"I don't know. Maybe some Disney songs?"

Aubrey embraced them with tears in her eyes.

"But keep it a secret," Amber admonished the old woman. "If Miles hears about it, he'll find a way to ruin the whole thing."

Nodding, she smiled and rubbed Isabel's cheek. It was one of those motherly and grandmotherly gestures which reminded Isabel of her lost family.

"And are we also going to hear that famous CD you recorded?"

Isabel laughed, embarrassed.

"Is all Portuguese songs for babies," she shook her head. "Victor wanted de CD because of Lilia Victoria."

"Oh, I don't know," Amber chuckled. "It's true I didn't understand a word of it, but I loved the sound. I honestly think you should record another one. Not for children, this time. Or maybe you and Rosie! Aubrey, did you hear that song that Isabel and Lena wrote for Rosie to sing?"

Isabel shook her head. It had been a bland, typically cliché musical composition – even Victor had thought so! And although Lena's lyrics had been very nice, they had also been clearly amateurish. The woman did have potential as a lyricist, though, and was determined to improve the lyrics for her daughter's first original song.

"Lena usually just adapts the lyrics of real songs," Amber explained, "but they wanted to give Rosie a surprise. It was such a lovely song! It brought tears to my eyes, I'm telling you."

Only because she knew the people involved, surely! Even more embarrassed, especially when the praise was piled on such a mediocre work, in her opinion, Isabel looked at the children, playing in their three separate groups. Amber was now promising Aubrey she'd warn her next time Rosie was set to sing in public, which should be after school was over.

"Maybe you and Lena can put together another song until then," Amber said, squeezing Isabel's leg excitedly.

"Maybe," she said quickly. "But I was thinking: what are de Disney films dat Debbie likes?"

* * *

Dinner was almost ready when Isabel stepped outside. The yard accessible from the kitchen had mostly cooking herbs and a couple of fruit trees, not to mention a couple of grape vines that were set to climb up a pergola. The front of the yard also had some berry bushes, so Lilia could hunt for her dessert after lunch, once the berries ripened. Isabel smiled at the flowers covering the bushes and already imagined herself picking up the berries with her baby girl, maybe even with Victor. Racing to see who could catch more. It would be almost like bringing a bit of her past into the present. She could hardly wait for it!

Before going back inside, she inspected the sky. The sun would set in about half an hour, but as the colours changed and the wind blew gently down the mountain slope, Isabel was confident that the next day would also be nice and warm, just a few good weather clouds here and there.

Victor was set to arrive on Thursday, and she hadn't yet decided what dessert she was going to do with the strawberries. Humming, she checked the soup and the stew. They weren't quite ready yet, so she decided to check the strawberries, try and guess how many would ripen in the next two days. She'd planted those on the other yard, next to the den and the music room. They had the company of roses, a couple of fruit trees and a few more berry bushes. Isabel was very proud of both her yards. But perhaps she should talk to Victor about moving the fence further away so there could be a corridor from one yard to the other in the front of the house. That way, Lilia could run from one side to the other without having to go through the house. It wasn't a problem now, but in a couple of years, the outdoor corridor would ensure a quiet indoor.

She walked past Lilia, who was putting her wooden animal toys on the steps of the stairs, as far as she could reach in between the slats of the baby stair gate. Victor had come up with that game months ago, probably almost a year ago. He had wanted her to develop her fine motorskills and her concepts of size, so she was supposed to line the animals from bigger to smaller and to place them in a perfect line, side by side. She had recently taken a liking to it, and now often lined up toys and baby books, sometimes by size, sometimes by colour. The girl was so busy, she didn't even look at Mamma.

Humming, Isabel opened the French door and stepped outside. And froze. The black bear in front of her looked as much surprised as she did, but he got up on his hind legs, ears flatten back, then roared menacingly. Not even breathing, Isabel stepped back in and closed the window immediately.

"Mamma?"

Heart beating wildly inside her chest, she tried to organise her thoughts. Victor had taught her how to read all the animal prints around, which she did faithfully every single morning when Victor was away. She had practised shooting her riffle over and over again, both at the shooting range, near Kitchener, and in the property. But one thing was to go around the property, checking the ground for prints and practising shooting at trees, another thing was to have an actual bear eating her strawberries and sniffing at the window. God! How many times had he said – sometimes annoyed enough to growl – that bears would not be coming near the house? That cougars themselves would be rare! Foxes, bobcats and lynxes might show up a few times, but not _bears_! They had nothing around that could attract them.

"Mamma?"

Lilia embraced her legs quietly as the bear came closer and started testing the strength of the window with its paw. Suddenly, the shock was gone. Isabel picked up her baby and went to the hall, opened the security system box to switch on the protective metal shutters of every window and door on the ground floor. Not waiting for the electric buzz to stop, she returned to the den. The bear was still sniffing and knocking on the glass, even as the shutters slowly closed. Her rifle was kept in Victor's study, which was located between the den and her music room. She got it as the metal shutter finished closing, so she switched on the lights to get the ammunition before heading upstairs.

First of all, she closed every shutter in her girl's room, put her on the bed with a kiss and locked her room's door. Then she went to the guest room which had a window to the yard.

The bear was still sniffing around the shutters, ocasionally getting up on its hind legs and testing the metal with both paws.

Isabel got the rifle and loaded it, then switched the safety off. Finally, she opened the window and aimed at the animal's head. It was a very different feel, aiming from high rather than from level ground, so she took her time until she felt confident. Then she squeezed the trigger.

The animal didn't fall immediately, but it was clearly hurt as it tried to escape. Isabel quickly shot a second time, this time aiming at its neck. The bear tripped and fell, disorientated, and she took her third and final shot. With practised ease, she unloaded the riffle. Not wishing to waste time with it, she simply left it in the room and locked it before going over to get her girl.

She was sitting very still on her bed and Isabel picked her up with fanfare.

"Oh, such a perfect little helper you are! You helped Mamma so much, staying quietly in your room. Everything's just fine now, my love. Just fine! Shall we go down so you can keep on playing with your toys?"

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard the pots and hurried to switch the stove off.

"I'm afraid dinner will be a bit late today, my love. Mamma can't let a bloody animal outside. It can attract predators, and we won't allow that, will we? No, of course not. But you can have some bread and biscuits, and some fruit too. Here, Mamma will leave them on the coffee table for you."

Skinning and butchering a bear isn't as easy as a deer, especially when you're alone with a curious thirty month old toddler. Isabel was forced to lock the girl inside the den, with the curtains open wide so she could keep an eye on the child, as she started skinning the bear. As the sun set, she had to switch on the yard lights, which attracted all sorts of insects, buzzing around her and stinging her whenever possible.

Isabel filled two buckets with fat before she managed to get to the red meat underneath it, then she started cutting chunks of it. She had accompanied her mother and her grandmothers to the open-market from a young age, so she had a clear idea of how pork and beef are cut. The deer she'd butchered with Victor years ago hadn't been much different, so she did her best to apply the general idea to the bear. It wasn't easy, though. Especially not in the dark.

Once she'd gone inside to put all the meat in the freezer and the fat in the fridge, and after making sure Lilia wasn't hungry or thirsty, Isabel had to make a decision.

Going to the cabin in the back made her hesitate for a moment – what if there were more bears out there? Or cougars or something! – but she still got the axe from the cabin. After getting rid of the paws, the head and the bones she'd carved the meat from, which she added to the animal's guts in the garbage bin, neatly closed in garbage bags, she started scraping the hide. Oh, it angered her to no end! Isabel did not produce much trash, and anything that Leslie couldn't use for her composting was neatly put away in bags and sealed containers which Victor – or her – took to the garbage collection point on a weekly basis. And to think garbage was collected almost daily back home in Portugal! Here, garbage was collected weekly even though it could attract wild animals! Sure, Victor had made sure that none of their garbage could produce inviting smells for predators, but it still poked her anger. Because, whether the predator attracting garbage was carefully locked or not, the fact was that she'd had a bear trying to break into her home.

Inside the house, Lilia fell asleep on the sofa, but Isabel kept going, angry bit by angry bit. Once she had scraped as much meat and fat as she could see, she got every bag of salt she had in the house and rubbed it over the hide. She should have taken it indoors, but it was too late once she remembered it. There wasn't enough salt to cover the whole surface as she believed it should be covered anyway, so tomorrow she'd just have to buy some more salt, scrape the hide again and reapply. Oh, and phone the Skinners to ask them for tips. She had killed the darned bear, and she was going to have its pelt for a blanket. All of it made by herself! She got a tarp from the cabin and covered the skin, though being careful to hold it a few inches high, so air could move freely and help dry the animal skin.

Finally, her arms heavy and aching, she got home to wash her bloodied body in a quick shower in the downstairs bathroom, and… oh, to hell with taking the child upstairs! She was sleeping so peaceful as it was, that Isabel simply made sure she was well-tucked under a blanket before getting one for herself and making herself comfortable on the sofa next to her daughter. Still, she glanced at the phone.

Victor hadn't called or texted all day long. Despite the tiredness, anger was starting to go from simmering to boiling in her veins.

 _call me when you can_ , she texted in Portuguese.

She hadn't expected it to be immediately.

"Is everything ok?" He asked with worry in his voice. "Are ya havin' nightmares?"

Why was he asking about… Oh, he must have done the Maths and figured out a text at two in the morning meant something was not quite right.

"No, no, my love," she said in Portuguese, trying her best to hold back the anger from her voice. "I'm fine."

"Are ya sure? Ya sound weird."

"Perfectly fine! Well, I'll be honest: I am a bit tired. But I was wondering if you could give me good instructions on how to tan a hide to perfection."

A moment of silence.

"Why d'ya wanna know that in the middle o' the night?"

"So I can start working on it first thing in the morning, obviously. I don't want the hide to get ruined because of sitting outside for too long."

"What fuckin' hide?"

His voice was starting to sound pissed, and Isabel couldn't hold the anger anymore.

"The hide of the bear I had to kill because it was trying to get inside my house. You know, the bear you said I needn't worry about because it would never show up!"

Isabel could swear he'd held his breath.

"I'm getting' on a plane first thing," he said through clenched teeth. "I'll…"

"What for, man!" She blew in the lowest voice possible. "The bear is chopped up and in the freezer. My only problem is knowing how to tan that fucking hide. So either you give me detailed instructions, or I'll ask the Skinners for help. You know what? Forget it. I've just finished taking care of that beast and I'm tired. Simply text the instructions in Spanish so I can start working on it early tomorrow. Good night."

She switched the phone off and killed the sound. If he had the brilliant idea to phone again, she didn't want to put up with it.

* * *

Creed finished the job he was on as fast as he could and managed to catch an earlier plane home. What on earth was wrong with that woman to attract anything that could go wrong? He had lived in the middle of the woods for years! Well, maybe not in a row, but he'd spent months in the middle of the woods, often two or three a year. How many times had a bear come knocking at his door? Zero. Cougars? Not even a scent! And in half a year, Isabel had come face to face with two of them! What was wrong with her? A few years back he'd said she was a walking 'get me' sign, and he stood by it. She was a freaking magnet for trouble!

As he drove up to his house, he didn't hear his Lil' Devil's voice. Must be inside the house. As usual, he stopped the jeep in front of the yard next to the den and got out. Isabel had put up a large tarp forming a sort of canopy while she worked on the hide.

His insides twisted sharply as she looked up at him. She was kneeling on the ground, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts – that should have been a lot shorter, if you asked him – and a T-shirt. Her hair was up in a messy bun and she looked a bit flushed, perhaps tired. She had dirt all the way up to her elbows and all over her legs, as she had been in the process of scraping the inside of the hide, a pile of old salt next to her, and despite being only ten in the morning she smelled salty, greasy and sweaty. But not in a stinky way, just… busy.

"Hey," she said casually in Portuguese. "Lilia Victoria is visiting Leslie. I can't work on this with her around me. There's stew in the fridge if you're hungry, otherwise… I'm sure she'll dump Leslie for you in a heartbeat."

She got up and stretched, then walked up to the fence separating them. Her barefeet caught his attention for some reason.

"Had a good flight?"

He shrugged, forcing himself to get over that first impression that was accumulating in his groin, and opened the gate to get in.

"I'll finish that fer ya," he said mildly.

There was something else underneath the salty grease smeared all over her body, and he stopped to sniff her. A bit of anger, but it wasn't that. It was something… spicy. She was nearing her fertile period. Isabel turned her back on him with an unexpected derisive snort and he grabbed her arm without thinking.

"Let go of me. I killed the bear, get it? It's _my_ kill, _my_ hide. _I_ 'll take care of it."

His insides twisted again, harder. She's in heat, he told himself. But there was more than it. Her kill. Yeah. She had killed a bear all by herself. It was her kill, indeed. For some stupid reason he couldn't fathom that gave him a hard on that had absolutely nothing to do with the incipient heat scent.

"You can give verbal instructions if you want, but that's all there is to it. This bear's _mine_. Now let go of my arm so I can…"

He pulled her into a kiss that caught her unaware and unresponsive for a split second, but then she dropped the scraper and grabbed the back of his neck with her greasy hands. Before he knew it, both his jeans and her shorts had been ripped off their bodies, as neither had bothered to let go to undress.

"Am I fertile?" She panted softly a moment after he'd come inside her.

"Just startin'," he said.

It had been six months since her last miscarriage, which meant no condoms from now on.

"Shit! And I still have so much to do on that skin!"

Creed let his fangs scratch her neck as a fanciful vision of a naked Isabel wrestling with the bear thrilled his being. He'd lock her in a cage if she ever dreamt of actually getting in close proximity to a dangerous wild animal, but the image in his brain was still making him hard.

"Tell me how ya killed it," he growled, biting hard on her earlobe.

"I shot it from the guest bedroom upstairs. Three…" She moaned as he entered her again, after nibbling her breasts. "Three shots… He was… pawing… Fuck it, man! Either ask me questions or make me come!"

Keeping in mind the expletive, he focused on the coming part, for the both of them. Then he lay beside her and she gave him the details.

"He came fer the strawberries," Creed thought out loud, once she was over, then glanced about him. "Fruit is a big part of a bear's diet, an' most fruit in the woods are berries."

He rolled over and sat back on his haunches. Isabel had pretty much walled both yards with berry bushes, if you didn't count the roses and kitchen herbs. The woman sat up with an outraged 'what'.

He shook his head. Damned! Why hadn't he thought of it when she'd started planning the yards?

"I've lived in a few different cabins out in the woods, smack in the middle o' nowhere an' bears everywhere, but there was never many berries round those cabins. That's why they never came snoopin' in. It never even occurred ta me ya was puttin' bear attractants all around!"

Now he'd have to…

Isabel got up and wobbled to the middle of the yard, her unsteadiness making him drop his line of thought.

"Nesi, are ya feelin' ok?"

When she turned to him, her face looked like a block of ice.

"It's ok," she said with treacherous softness. "It's ok, I know… You do everything to keep me and our baby safe, I know. But you are used to being the top bad guy that no person or animal ever messes with. It's ok."

Ok, so she didn't blame him for having forgotten that berries would attract bears. That was nice to know even if he did feel pissed at himself for having done so. Nevertheless, she still seemed to be acting weird. When she started heading to the back of the yard he called out to her, but she didn't answer.

Creed got up to go after her but she had just knelt by the strawberry beds.

"Ya should go in an' put some clothes on."

Even though early June had nice, warm temperatures, he worried she might get cold. It was always cold for her, anyway. She didn't need to say a word; it was obvious from the way she was always wearing jackets and sweaters.

Instead of as much as acknowledging his words, she grabbed a handful of the plants and pulled them out of the ground. Then she pulled out the next plant, and the next.

"What are ya doin'?"

She had been so insistent that a proper yard had to have herbs and fruit growing about. He grabbed her arm to get her attention but she shook him off and reached for the blueberry bush. Its roots were more firmly set, so her hands slid on the branches and she hissed a Portuguese curse before trying anew. Creed stopped her, though. Holding her by both shoulders, he pulled her back and made her look up at him.

"What are ya doin'?" He insisted.

Tears started flowing down her cheeks and his grip softened instinctively, in a thoughtless attempt to avoid the waterworks he so hated.

"What does it look like, man of God? Do you think I'm going to have my house surrounded by bait for bears?"

"But ya wanted…"

"Victor, for the love God, what do you think is more important? A traditional yard or keeping bears away? I can buy fruit in Canyon, in Creston, anywhere!"

The tears hadn't stopped flowing, though. She had daydreamed about picking her own fruit for so long. The grapes and the blackberries, especially. Every time she did something in the yard, she mentioned it. She'd spewed story on top of story of how she used to help these uncles harvesting grapes, or how her cousins went through empty fields eating blackberries, and whoever had clipped the top of a finger using the grape harvesting scissors, and… Worse than that had been this spring, when the first flowers had started blooming and she'd started planning all the recipes she could use for her own homegrown fruit.

There was a part of him that was happy she would finally stop raving about the damned things, but as she once more turned to the bush and resumed pulling it, her pain nagged him.

"Get the axe," she said, her voice cool despite the tears she tried to rub off with her arms. "Start felling the trees."

A bit of the plant gave in but not fully, and her hands once more slid harshly over the branches. A slight whiff of blood reached his nose, even as she adjusted her grip.

"Go upstairs an' put some clothes on," he put a hand over her shoulder losely. He knew she was always more stubborn when she felt forced. "Bring me a pair o' jeans, too. I can't go about fellin' trees naked, can I?"

Sniffing, she nodded and brushed her cheek. The palm of her left hand had a few angry welts, but the right one was scratched so deeply there were at least a couple of open cuts. He hoped she was sufficiently cool-headed to tend to those wounds. Once she entered the house, he growled viciously at… he wasn't even sure at what! Then he grabbed the damned bush the woman had been pulling and yanked it off the earth, leaving behind a gaping hole.

By lunch time, the yard looked like a war zone, holes everywhere around the wooden fence. The hide was still waiting, which wouldn't be good if Isabel wanted it soft and pliable, so he'd used the slim trunks of the felled trees to make a frame and had started stretching it. It annoyed him, though. He had never given a damn about all the greenery she'd insisted in planting. The only thing he had been grateful for was that it was a useful greenery, rather than a bunch of colourful flowers, but it still had meant absolutely nothing to him.

Nevertheless, today he looked around and missed the greenery much too acutely. This stupid thought that the place felt a bit less like home flashed through his mind and he growled, focused on stretching the skin taut. But the frail flowers of the apple trees that were strewn about the place, having broken free as the trees were chopped up, flew around him with the breeze like some cheesy rom-com and he found himself yearning for the fruit those blooms would never transform into.

"I've heated the stew," Isabel said, coming to his side.

"I'm gonna finish stretchin' this first so ya can keep on tannin' it in the afternoon."

She remained at his side a bit longer before finally going inside and he stopped, looking at her hips swaying sadly.

He hadn't been able to smell her heat, right now. All he had smelled was the curative in her hand and the salty sadness. The dirt and grease of the scraping were gone since she'd had a shower.

Feeling hungry himself, he hurried the job before going inside. The empty yard was still nagging him, though.

"What if we replace 'em fruit trees with maple trees? Ya'd have the sap fer yer syrup an' there'd be no fruit attractin' bears."

She shrugged a subdued ok and he got pissed.

"Ya wanted trees around, didn't ya? What the fuck's wrong with maple trees?"

She frowned at her plate.

"I wanted _fruit_ trees. I wanted a yard that looked as much as possible like the yards of my past life. I wanted apples, and peaches, and pears, and quinces! What do maple trees have to do with Portugal, hun? Nothing! And why do you want trees anyway? Didn't you tell me last year that a simple fence with no plants blocking the view is strategically wiser?"

Creed focused on his own plate. Yes, he had said a simple fence is safer. And it is! But it looked so naked. Empty. He'd become used to driving up the path and seeing his house surrounded by green, looking fresh and alive. Welcoming.

Isabel took a deep breath before apologising.

"I appreciate your help getting rid of it all," she added in a tired voice. "But I'm not looking for a… a substitute. You wanted no trees and bushes and I insisted I had to have them. It's been proved my insistance isn't safe, so now you get your simple fence. And I don't mean that like… I'm not angry that it'll end up the way you wanted. I'm angry that I can't have not even a little of what I've always wanted for my house. It's not your fault."

Creed chewed it over. Slowly.

"I like seein' the trees," he ended up grumbling. "I'll talk ta Danny Matchett ta see what other trees we can plant. Maybe there's somethin' that's similar ta Portuguese trees. Something like birch, maybe. It exists pretty much everywhere in Europe."

"Do you really mean it? That you liked having the trees?"

His blood boiled immediately:

"No, I'm lyin' just ta make ya happy. As if _that_ would ever happen!"

She apologised with a shrug.

"Ya can also replace 'em berry bushes with flowers, make that green fence ya wanted."

Isabel shook her head.

"I don't want a garden, Victor. To have a few flowers is one thing, but to have them everywhere… Either it's something like lavender which I can dry and make scented sachets, or… why would I want a bunch of tulips, and carnations, and…"

She lost him there. The Portuguese flower names she was spewing meant absolutely nothing to him and, from the length of the list, he was damned glad she didn't want a garden.

"Ok, I get it: no garden. Does that mean ya ain't gonna put roses everywhere either?"

Because he had no beef with the things, but he'd rather not be surrounded by them. Isabel shook her head again, thankfully.

"The meadow was supposed to be the garden, with all the typical wild flowers of this area so there won't be much need of actively gardening. It was the yard that was supposed to be a token of remembrance of the yards of my family houses."

This was getting annoying, and Creed got up, not hungry enough to finish his food.

"I'm gonna get my Lil' Devil from the clutches of that New Age hag 'fore she brainwashes her into becomin' vegetarian."

Isabel's laughter was sudden and surprisingly pleasant to his ears. It sure dispelled the gloom of the meal.

"As if our baby girl could ever be talked out of eating meat. She won't even eat vegetable soup unless it has beef broth!"

"I'm still gonna get her," he grinned. "Then I'll stop by Erickscapes. D'ya wanna plan the new layout fer the yard this evenin' so the Matchetts can start workin' on it as soon as possible?"

She nodded without energy, thanked him once more.

"That hide will need ta be stretched a bit more 'fore ya start applyin' the egg yolk concoction. From the work ya've done, I figure ya can start doin' that tomorrow."

* * *

Creed was still mildly pissed by the whole thing, but aside some sudden spikes of irritation, there wasn't enough anger to focus on anything in particular. Especially not with his baby girl in his arms! He took her for a walk near Goat River before going to Erickscapes, but as he was talking to Danny Matchett, the legality of the situation came up. For a moment, he'd looked at the guy as if he had two heads. The legality of killing a bear in your own yard?

"Oh, yeah, I talked t'the authorities 'bout it, obviously."

But as he left the Erickson business, he phoned Don Sherman. It was such a stupid hassle! But, hey, Victor Kredall had to play by the book.

"Look, she had no idea she had ta report it and I never thought she hadn't till I got home an' talked ta her. Why don't ya phone the Conservation Officer and ask 'im ta stop by? I'll show 'im the window pane the bear broke."

Don had said he'd text him the guy's number, but Creed had bitten down a new spike of irritation and had asked it as a personal favor.

Naturally, Isabel had been aggravated by the bureaucracy but since both the Skinners and the Matchetts knew about it, they didn't have a way out but to act all lawfully. Creed used his claws to make it look like the bear had been intent in breaking in. Not only did he break the window pane, but he also imprinted deep scratches onto the decorative bricks that lined the house.

"This is really uncommon," Alden Samuels, the local Conservation Officer, commented when he saw it.

Creed had seen him before in the SAR meetings he'd started attending in the last two months, but they had never really talked.

"Where do you keep your garbage?"

Creed showed him the small bin they used for daily waste and the cement outhouse where the tightly closed trash bags were kept till their weekly pickup.

"Most people around leave their waste handy for any animal to get in," Samuels commented. "But this is definitely secure. So the bear was eating the strawberries when she saw it, eh?"

Creed pointed at the gutted kitchen yard.

"She kicked up a storm 'cause she wanted fruit trees everywhere. The moment I told 'er that bears like fruit, that's what she did: uprooted the whole lot."

Samuels breathed out, asked if they didn't have bear spray.

"It's a better way to get rid of a bear than shooting."

Yeah, right. Better to not let on how laughable he thought that idea.

"No. Ya see, she ain't from around. The biggest wild animal she grew up with was a fox. The scaredy type that never show up. When she realised this was bear country, she kinda freaked out so I told her bears would never show up on her doorstep. I mean, I've lived off the grid and I never had any close encounter, so I wasn't exactly expectin' this ta happen. Not with all the precautions of securin' waste, keepin' a wide clearin' 'tween the house an' the woods… Damned those strawberries!"

"Better not to promise stuff like that again," the guy smirked. "Look, get some bear spray and keep it handy, eh? I'm not saying this bear wasn't uncommonly aggressive, to be trying to break in so doggedly, but next time a predator shows up, whether it's a bear or a cougar or a lynx… anything she feels threatening. Even if it's a racoon or a fox. Tell her to phone me directly and I'll handle the animal for her, ok?"

* * *

"Alden Samuels," Isabel repeated slowly after they'd gone to bed. "There is a woman called Samuels that works as an administrative in the Community Complex. Alissa Samuels, if I'm not mistaken. Her son, his name's Coopuh or something like that, he's fourteen or fifteen and he wants to join his father in the search and rescue group, but, obviously, he's too young. Do you think this Alden man could be her husband?"

Creed shrugged, not interested, and nibbled her neck, breathed in deeply. The scent of being in heat was getting stronger but it wasn't overpowering yet.

"They're more or less the same age, so it could be. Or they could be siblings-in-law. I'll find out tomorrow."

He wasn't really listening to her, though. All the wasted time with the Conservation Officer had kept him from sitting down with his Nesi and re-planning the yard. His groin might be interested in something else, but her scent would carry such a punch in another twelve to twenty-four hours that he'd be fucking her almost constantly, so he might as well take the opportunty to focus on something else since he really wanted to plan the yard with her. She'd done it all pretty much by herself, last time. Matchett's suggestions and her decisions, even if he had sat beside her through the entire process. However, after all the fun they'd had planning the beach house in California, no way was he keeping himself out of the picture again.

"Have ya seen the prints I brought ya from Erickscapes?"

She shook her head and cuddled against him as he dropped them on the pillow. She threw the pillows to the bottom of the bed to avoid strained necks. It was mostly stuff printed from the Internet. The first pages were all about roses – so she could add a few more bushes if she'd like – but once those were over, she gasped and held her breath for a moment.

"Oh, yeah," he grinned, pleased with himself. "Ya can plant poppies in yer meadow."

He knew from their time in Portugal that poppies were simply her best-loved, most favoritest flower ever. And add some extra emphasis to it. He hadn't thought of it before because Isabel had stressed she only wanted to give native wild flowers a boost so they'd keep on blooming by themselves in a few years. Meadows should handle themselves naturally, she'd said. Otherwise, they'd be called gardens. But after seeing his woman so heartbroken over not having any Portuguese plants around to kill her homesickness, he'd decided to take matters in his own hands.

"They ain't exactly native, but they'll bloom well enough without much work. I've already told 'em ta fill the place with seeds ASAP."

Her sudden gaze on him more than repaid the trouble, and he swatted her hand off the pile of prints, eager to show off all his smart work.

"I told 'em I wanted a list of every damned plant that could be grown in this area with as little trouble as possible, an' then I had 'em crossreferencin' with Mediterranean plants. Here are _my_ suggestions."

Not Matchett's. Who cared about the asshole anyway?

"Lavender, sage, salvia, rosemary, geraniums, daisies, armerias, hollyhocks, violets, Spanish bluebells, wisterias ta replace the grape vines ya wanted fer the pergola… Now, I know ya said ya don't want no garden, but it's best if ya sees 'em all an' then choose the few ones ya want. There's all sorts o' varieties, so these probably ain't exactly like the ones ya had back in Portugal. But see here? Heather. There's some varieties o' heather that bloom real early. Sometimes, they bloom 'fore the snow is gone! Ya're always goin' on 'bout how late flowers bloom here, I thought ya'd like that."

Isabel laughed beautifully and kissed him, praised him, glorified him!

"There's only one thing I want in this yard and I ain't puttin' up with no shit over it."

"Anything," she purred devotedly.

At least he hoped it could grow in Creston's weather.

"I want that plant ya sing about in my song. Rosemaneeño."

"Rooshmaneeñoo?" She corrected his accent. "That's…"

She went over the prints and hesitated when she got to the varieties of lavender.

"It's not quite this."

He pointed out those were all the cultivated varieties of lavender that could be grown in their weather.

"Rosmaninho grows wild," she explained. "You can pick some of it and put in a pot to have some in your yard, but… it's a wild plant, basically."

Wild lavender, huh? He got his tablet and looked it up. It pleased him that the flower looked hardy, rather than all delicate and showy, and for a moment he expected the unassuming bush to be able to withstand the Kootenays temperatures. It didn't take him long to find the one she was talking about and his hope crumbled. Lavandula latifolia, also known as spike lavender. If they lived in a place without snowy winters, they could have planted that variety. The site, which compared different varieties, said it had a stronger and more pungent scent than most of the varieties suitable for colder climates. While there was a part of him that felt slight relief at not being overwhelmed by excessive floral perfumes, it disappointed him terribly that he couldn't have the wild lavender of his song growing in his own yard. The only fucking flower he actually wanted!

"We'll have ta stick ta English lavender," he grumbled.

It looked nothing like the Portuguese one. He was so frustrated, he even growled at the images of the different varieties whitin the stupid English lavender species. Isabel pointed out the hidcote variety was the one that looked the most similar.

"Where do you want it? In the kitchen yard or in the music yard?"

He swatted the pile of prints off the bed and stretched to get back the pillows.

"I'm tired," he growled at Isabel's reproach. "I wanna get some sleep."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	71. Creston: The Warning

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **71\. Creston: The Warning**

Four weeks after the black bear's disastrous visit, Creed had located every single berry bush that existed within his property. There weren't many, just a few of blueberries, a couple of saskatoons and blackberries, and one of gooseberries. He'd talked to Matchett and was going to locate perfect locations to grow the things. The idea was to make sure they were far from the house, but were still close enough to spend an afternoon eating and collecting berries for jams, just as Isabel had dreamed of. The idea had thrilled her and, so far, he had already made a decision on one spot: right by the swing and future watchtower. If he was going to turn the high area into an overview of sorts, he might as well work on bringing together stuff that kept his Lil' Devil occupied. Like collecting berries!

"Not that one," he said to his baby girl. "Look at the colour. Is it ripe?"

She shook her head and pointed at another blueberry, waiting for his nod. Then she carefully plucked it out of the branch and dropped it into the jar Pappa was holding for her. It was a great way of developing her fine motor skills! As advanced as she was where it came to walking, running, jumping and balance, she still grabbed things roughly and, when she was playing with shapes that had to fit them into holes, she'd rather bang the pieces till they miraculously fell in or she got tired and moved to something else. It wasn't that she didn't know how to do it – if he sat by her and told her to do it right, for example – it was simply that she didn't want to bother with doing things gently. He didn't care that she lined her toys by size fairly well, she had to develop the strength and dexterity of her little fingers. She'd spend the entire summer picking berries, he'd decided. By next fall, not only would her dexterity have improved immensely, she'd also be able to recognise all the different berries and when they were ripe.

"Not 'ipe," she shook her little head pointing at another berry. "Not 'ipe. Not 'ipe. 'Ipe! 'Ipe?"

He confirmed and she opened her hand to grab it eagerly, but he stopped her.

"Three fingers, remember? Or the blueberry won't be good ta eat, and ya wanna eat it, don't ya? Three fingers."

With the cutest growled sigh, she used the fingers as Pappa said, but then struggled to pluck it.

"Hold the branch like this. Here, Pappa'll help."

Most berries were left in the bush as they weren't ripe. Just before leaving, he poured the berries onto his hand and helped the child count them while she dropped them back into the jar. Sixteen. They had collected exactly sixteen blueberries. He let her eat a couple, but then they headed back home.

Rosie was having a music lesson with Isabel, and he had hoped they were done by the time he returned. He might like to hear the woman sing and play, but that didn't extend to the teenager. And the truth was that he couldn't put up not even with Isabel's practice, much less the kid's. Isabel could repeat the same short musical sentence or whatever it was she called it over twenty times in a row, with either mimimum differences or no differences at all. It drove him nuts!

Besides, he wanted to talk to Isabel about Douglas Hudnal. The survivalist had arthritis, according to her sources. It was supposedly so bad, he couldn't even shoot his hunting rifle anymore. Besides that, he was in need of money. He had invested all he'd owned to buy his land and he'd been living a frugal life ever since. Medicine, though, cost money.

Creed had scooped out his property, which was very nice, and had discovered that his house was near the road. This meant he could make an offer for the deeper end of his property. It wasn't the ideal, since his own property had no direct connection to Hudnal's, but that could be worked out later as he kept on buying land. He had already decided to contact Cordelia Northrope, who by now was his go-to in the local real estate market, but he wanted to talk to Isabel first, make sure the contact was done the right way. With the Gabrielson's, for example, her personal approach had made the whole thing go very smoothly. Of course she wouldn't contact the man herself, the way she'd done with the old couple, but she was more used to rubbing people the right way than he was. It was better to have her advice than to risk the attempted transaction going sour and failing.

As he approached the music yard, though, it became clear that they were having an argument of sorts and he shushed his Lil' Devil with a hand to be able to hear some of it.

"…no need!" The teenager's voice hissed angerly. "There's nothing to go wrong!"

"If is alcohol, things always go wrong. Is guaranteed, honey."

It was interesting that Isabel's voice sounded so careless next to the angry Rosie. Unfortunately, Victoria wasn't about to remain still in his arms, so he leaned on the open French window.

"Havin' a fight already?" He grinned, setting Victoria on the floor.

She'd been squirming in his arms, supposedly to go to Rosie, but once inside the room, she was confused by the tension in the air and simply leaned quietly against his legs.

"Does that mean the lessons are over from now on?"

The girl went red and shook her head, claimed they weren't fighting. Isabel laughed, a bit coldy, and agreed with her.

"We're just talking about what can and can't go wrong in a party wid teenagers and alcohol. Rosie said her moder exagerates and says everything can go wrong, and I agree. Is lots you can do to protect yourself in parties like dat so doesn't have to be a disaster."

The girl's reaction was an outraged frown in Isabel's direction and Creed got the impression that if Isabel was explaining the matter in detail to him – when she knew he couldn't care less about it – it was because she had some devilish little plan rolling and had probably just decided to incorporate him.

"But dis party is supposed to be in de forest, away from everything and dat means you're trapped. Is never a good thing to be trapped. If you don't like de direction a party is going, you have to always be able to get out widout problems."

OK, he got it. Lena didn't want the girl going to the bush party and Isabel was trying to get some sense into her head. And failing, apparently. Did it mean she wanted _him_ to pitch in?

"But if you don't have a car and are dependent of a boy to bring you back…"

"It's not _a boy_ ," the embarrassed girl fought back. "It's Imogen's _brother_. I'm going with _her_ , not a boy!"

In his car. It made a hell of a difference!

"And we're not going, anyway, because my mum and her mum said we couldn't go, so there!"

Isabel laughed.

"You think I never let my mum think I was staying grounded in de house and den left in secret? I know how things are, honey. So you are going wid Imogen, and de two go wid… what's his name?"

"Derek."

"Ok. Is he graduating?" Isabel turned to him as Rosie nodded. "De kids dat finish school, dat graduate, dey organise dis bush parties. But dey are forbidden, so groups of friends organise things secretely. All de friends of de graduates join, of course. And because some don't have cars – and deir parents don't want lend cars – dey get togeder wid older cousins to organise de transport."

She turned to the girl and Creed could see Isabel was trying hard to hold back angry frustration, despite her apparent carelessness.

"So, what happens if you and Imogen decide you want leave but Derek wants stay?"

"We get inside his car and wait!" Like, duh, her intonation added. "We're just going to dance and drink some beers, nothing much. It's no big deal!"

Isabel sighed stiffly.

"Imogen is dating who?"

Rosie blushed and chocked.

"You said you were going to de party because Imogen convinced her broder and she invited you to go, right? Because she doesn't want go alone. But her boyfriend is in de party, right? Who is he?"

"Jaxon."

"And dat means, my darling, dat Imogen and Jaxon are going to be togeder, and you will be alone. And if you get inside dat car to wait de end of de party or to feel safe, you better have de key and lock yourself in. But is Derek going to give you de key?"

At this point, Creed was trying not laugh. The girl had been getting progressively flushed, stupidly fighting the obvious, but by now her distress was bordering on tears.

"You're just like my mum!" She ended up shouting, because that argument made so much more sense. "You just hate that people want to have fun because you don't know what fun is!"

"Yes, you hate me and your moder and everyone who has a bit of common sense in de head. Is ok. I said dat many times to my moder and my aunts, too."

Rosie wheezed a loud, frustrated groan and turned around, left the room.

"Dis is your daughter in fifteen years," Isabel shrugged stiffly towards him. "Better start thinking now about what you're going to say, because I just used all my best arguments and you see de result. God, and I didn't even sound like my moder!"

The light amusement he'd had while he was watching the scene vanished suddenly. For a moment, he did imagine his baby girl wanting to go to bush parties. For a moment, he did imagine her refusing to listen to the voice of reason and experience.

"Enjoy her love and adoration while you can," Isabel grumbled somberly.

Creed could hear Rosie in the den, putting on her jacket and grabbing her bike helmet.

"When dey're five or six, dey start telling dey hate you."

What?

"No. When they're teens, sure," he was aware teens are rebellious dumbasses. "But my baby girl ain't ever gonna says she hates me 'fore then. She adores me!"

"You want a bet? De difference is dat when dey're six, dey say 'I hate you' and five minutes later dey love you again. But when dey're seventeen…"

The front door banged close.

"I just hope nothing bad happens to her," Isabel said breathed out angrily. "She is _so_ stubborn… I look at her and I think: dis is my baby girl and what can I say to make her understand de danger?!"

What to say? Hell, if he didn't know! Creed left the music room and ran across the yard calling out to Rosie. The girl was already riding down the path, but she stopped.

"What are you doing?" Isabel asked behind him.

Innocently, the girl rode back to the house, furtively rubbing her teary face, after he'd said he had something for her. Something important because of Victoria. Creed opened the yard gate for her but she stopped at the entrance.

"It's in the den."

She hesitated, then. Creed saw her gaze avoiding Isabel, who was standing by the music room with Victoria in her arms. How to convince a stupid frail that the world isn't a sea of soft pink roses opening up for her every whim? Easy. You break her in the worst possible way and she'll fear both shadow and light for the rest of her life. But this was Rosie, his daughter's babysitter, and he had always held her ta be smart. This case of stubborn stupidity was a temporary insanity thing, nothing to do with her general behavior. It was innocence and naïvete blinding her as she fought to experience life. His baby girl would end up doing the same, one day.

"What is it?" The girl said in a small voice, eyes downcast.

He really could see his daughter in a few years when he looked at the girl. Stubborn and proud as her Mamma, determined and impetuous like her Pappa: the perfect recipe for a ticking bomb. But, as Isabel had said, if he could open up Rosie's eyes, he'd know how to open his Lil' Devil's eyes. No breaking, no scarring. He'd have to start long before she was seventeen, though. You bend a tree while it's young and flexible, not once they've stiffened into uselessness. His girl would have her eyes opened to this cruel world bit by bit; Rosie, on the other hand…

"Mr Kredall, what is it?"

He grabbed her by the arm and tightened his grip. She was so innocent, she didn't even smell afraid. She was simply startled!

"I said: in the _den_ ," he snarled lightly. "Not in the yard."

Finally there was fear, especially as he dragged her to the house and threw her onto the sofa.

"Victor, what are you doing? Stop it!"

Alarmed, Isabel tried to put herself between him and his target, but he avoided her by walking around the sofa and getting a hold of Rosie's face. Her breathing was fast and shallow by now, fear bordering on panic.

"Ya wanna know what fun is, lil' girl?" He used his softest voice but coupled it with a creepy smile. "Maybe ya should ask your Mamma 'bout it. Oh, but Mamma Lena don't tell ya nuthin', does she? All she does is lock ya up."

Slowly but surely, Creed pushed Isabel out of his way until he could crouch next to the girl, uncomfortably sprawled on the sofa but too terrified to move.

"Well, lemme tell ya 'bout 'em bush parties. Boys yer age, and older too, they're dyin' ta get inside a tigh lil' cunt like yers."

The girl's eyes almost popped out of their sockets and he laughed.

"Oh, don't tell me nobody told ya 'bout it? Poor baby! Why d'ya think they wants all the booze? If a chick is wasted enough, she ain't gonna put up a fight and everyone can take turns tryin' her out without a problem. She ain't gonna complain if a guy comes too soon, either. 'Cause boys these young, they don't really know what they're doin'. All they want is a warm body fer some trial runs."

He tugged on her T-shirt, just enough for the fabric to show off the shape of her breasts, but she mewled as if he had been groping her. He shook his head.

"Ah, no need ta be ashamed ya ain't got much in the way o' boobs! Them boys ain't gonna give a shit 'bout it. Hell, ya could be the ugliest chick in the whole country an' fat as hell on top of it! Ya got a cunt, and that's all that matters."

She started crying softly, too scared to make much sound.

"Now, don't ya start cryin', Rosie girl. No boy enjoys a cryin' chick when they're fuckin'. That's why they try ta get ya nice an' wasted, first. They're all nice an' sweet, hopin' ya'll open yer legs of yer own initiative. Once ya're too drunk ta know what's happenin', they can do the openin' 'emselves. Now I know not all boys are like that. They ain't got the balls ta make the first move, not even ta get ya drunk, some of 'em. But once they're tipsy an' their pals start eggin' 'em on, they stop havin' a choice. They either perform, or they're losers fer life."

He let go of her T-shirt and gave her some space, which only intensified her crying.

"Now I ain't sayin' some girls ain' spoilin' ta get laid wi' their chosen loser. I also ain't sayin' all 'em boys are lookin' ta get lucky. And I sure as hell ain't sayin' that ya can't go, down a couple o' beers, dance an' chat yer head off… and have no problem whatsoever with 'em boys."

He breathed out and got up. When he looked at Isabel, her glare could have scoured his skin off. He so loved to see her angry.

"Calm her down a bit, will ya? But don't let her go! There's still a couple o' things she's gotta hear."

Patiently, he went to the kitchen and got a glass of water, brought it back to the den. Rosie was crying out her little scared heart in Isabel's arms and he had to swallow down a sudden laugh.

"Here, drink some water." She didn't respond and he breathed out some annoyance. "Yeah, I know I scared the shit out of ya, but it's better ta be scared an' safe, than scared an' fucked. Now drink some water already an' calm down!"

Isabel took the glass, still glaring at him, and helped her take a few sips. Once her sobbing was more subdued, he crouched in front of her.

"Look at me. Are ya listenin'?" She nodded, still wrapped up in fear and he growled. "Ya better be listenin', girl, 'cause I ain't in no mood ta have this conversation again, d'ya understand?"

She nodded nervously and failed to hault a new batch of tears.

"As I was sayin' when ya got too wrought up ta listen, ya can go to the darned bush party and have lots o' fun an' nuthin' bad happen. But there's more chances o' things going the way ya want if ya know that your cunt is the prize every guy is droolin' after. When ya have that in mind, ya take precautions and it's less likely ya'll be targeted. And if some asshole decides ta take ya on, ya'll be ready ta kick 'im where it hurts and avoid his pals. 'Cause make no mistake: these boys work in packs. Ya fuck up one o' them, an' the rest is gonna tear ya apart. D'ya understand?"

She nodded, still tearfully. Damn, when was she going to put an end to the tears! He got up with a warning for her not to go anywhere, as he wasn't done yet. Because Isabel was so helpless, he'd gotten her a handgun for self protection, but also pepper spray, a couple of altered penknives and a taser. Just in case. Since she was less than capable of surviving on her own in the woods, which was where they lived, he'd also gotten her a small collection of locator beacons, all of them custom made so that she had the alternative to either beam her position to him alone, or to the actual system that would give her location to the nearest Search and Rescue operation.

"Ok, Rosie. I want ya ta look up at me an' repeat exactly what I tell ya, got it?"

She nodded and looked up fearfully.

"First of all, this is pepper spray. It's the same thing as bear spray, but more intense. Aim at the eyes and then run out of there as fast as ya can. Got it? Pepper spray; aim at the eyes. Spray and run away."

"Pepper spray," she mewled. "Aim at the eyes, spray and run away."

He offered an encouraging grin.

"That's a good girl. This is a locator beacon. The moment you run away, you hide in a darkened area and activate it. Now pay attention! Ya activate it on this lil' button here, get it? The orange one, not the yellow. Which colour is that?"

"Orange, not yellow. Orange."

"That's it. You push the _orange_ button. Once it's activated, keep it on you at all times. Put it in a pocket with a zipper, inside yer sweater, anywhere that ain't gonna fall off. Got it? Run away, hide, activate beacon. Orange button!"

"Run away, hide, activate beacon. Orange button."

He held out what anyone would say was a retractable pen. He pushed the button and a long shiny spike showed up instead of the expected tip of the pen.

"This is a… special penknife. Consider it yer last line o' defense an' do yer best ta gut the guy 'stead of yerself. Now, one thing ta keep in mind: if a guy starts hittin' on you insistingly an' don't care 'bout yer 'stop it', you tell 'im that ya wanna do it somewhere else an' then ya take 'im ta where his pals ain't gonna fall on ya the moment ya spray the asshole. Got it? Get the asshole away from his pals an' then spray 'im."

"Get him away from his friends and then spray."

And that was about all there was to it! Feeling satisfied with himself, he picked up Victoria, who was very quietly holding on to her mother's leg.

"Ya seem ta be a bit too shaky ta ride yer bike all the way home, so Isabel will give ya a ride as I'm pretty sure ya won't wanna be anywhere near me anytime soon."

She didn't answer but he wasn't expecting one anyway. He looked at his baby girl's big brown eyes and felt a… weird feeling twisting his insides. A need to protect her from everything and, above all, every man. Because he knew. As Sabretooth, as Victor Creed, as… he knew all too well what he'd seen and heard. What he'd done. All he had done. He embraced her precious tiny body and breathed in her scent. Behind him, Isabel was helping the teenager towards the hall.

"I've known a whole bunch o' men," he said, causing the girl's ragged breathing to catch in her throat. "From the day they learn ta jerk off t'the day they die, most men… ok, maybe it ain't most. I've worked mostly with vicious folks, after all. But there's way too many men who look at a woman an' see nuthin' but a cunt ta be fucked when they feel like it. They'll use pretty words, they'll use alcohol, they'll use drugs, they'll use force. An' then they'll laugh at yer tears, they'll hurt ya just t' enjoy yer pain, they'll make ya feel worthless an' worse than dirt. When a guy, no matter how old or how well dressed, smiles at ya and compliments yer pretty eyes… Ya never know what's inside his head, so it's better ta wach yer back an' trust not a single one o' them. Remember: fer a guy, the fun is in yer cunt and you don't count fer nuthin'."

* * *

"Come on," Isabel said harshly.

Rosie followed her meekly into the garage and got inside the jeep. Isabel stopped fleetingly to get her bike in the trunk, then drove down the path. Before getting into the main road, though, she took a deep breath and stopped the car.

"Victor works in security. De worst type of people you can imagine, he works wid people worse dan dat." Rosie didn't say anything, shivering in the seat. "I'm sorry dat he was so… intense. He has dis tendency dat I hate to be…. brute and crude and… well, what he was. I'm sorry. I'm _really_ sorry. Are you feeling ok?"

She nodded, but then started crying convulsively. Oh, she was going to kill the man!

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	72. Creston: Bush Party

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **72\. Creston: Bush Party**

The Mounties had been looking for the location of the bush party all week. Creed had talked to Don and he'd appreciated the information concerning multiple ones. Of course that also made their life more difficult.

"You guys are too uptight about it," Colin Ellis had said on Thursday night, after asking Creed why he'd taken his name off the course for that weekend. "If you let the kids throw their parties, you'd be able to keep an eye on them and keep things from going to hell. Instead, you scurry them into the middle of nowhere, they go overboard and bad stuff happens."

"Yeah," Vinny Spalding agreed. "Too strict makes for more shit."

Harland Harper disagreed.

"They'd go to the sanctioned party, and then they'd go somewhere else. It's the forbidden fruit that makes these parties exciting."

"You and Miles should know, eh?" Jacob Clemens laughed. "Wasn't at a bush party he knocked up Kate?"

Friday was the last day of school and every Mountie officer was on call for the night. They cracked down on two parties early in the evening and on a third later at night. Isabel had known through Lena that Rosie had spent the night at home, playing on her new guitar, Lena's end of school gift. All good. Except that the girl and two other friends had organised a sleepover to commemorate the end of the school year the following Saturday. Rosie, Imogen Devon and Marissa Everill had supposedly arranged the thing during spring break, but Isabel had a bad feeling about it.

"It's too much of a coincidence," Creed agreed.

Especially because he'd checked on Derek Devon and Imogen's supposed sweetheart, whose surname and address Isabel had dug up, and not one of the boys had as much as tried to leave the house on Friday.

"Will you keep an eye on them tomorrow?" Isabel had asked him tersely when he'd returned from his Friday stakeout.

He wasn't the least interested in doing so, but had said he would, sure. Isabel had grilled him to hell and back over his exageration with the girl. Said he'd traumatised her! He was pretty sure it was better to be traumatised by a couple of harsh words than an actual rape, but Isabel hadn't laid off the heat despite agreeing with that particular point.

Hiding in the shades in the yard of the Devons' house, Creed sincerely hoped he had traumatised the girl. If it kept her from going to the damned bush party, he'd be a happy camper. At least he'd be able to get back to bed. Grumbling to himself, he heard the girls' music echoeing through the night. That blasted weekend-long rope course would be so much better than playing at bodyguards to shitty-headed kids! The brother, Derek, left the house after a brief discussion that ended up in the driveway and with his father phoning someone to check if it was ok for his son to crash in.

"They've turned their room into a damned club," the guy said on the phone. "And they had the nerve to ask if we'd rather they were out in a bush party!"

Suspicious, Creed had gotten his own jeep and followed the boy. He'd gone to Jaxon Wilbor's house, but had been careful to park away from the house. Creed hid his own car and located the boys' room. He quickly realised they had backpacks ready and, while watching TV purposefully loud, they were checking a road map. And they were smart enough to be drinking beer before a night road trip!

Damned assholes.

He had been prepared for the possibility, though. He went back to Derek Devon's jeep and attached a locator to it. That way, he could follow from afar without worries of being made. He also got a good look of a picnic blanket covering what was suspciously similar to crates of beer. Unfortunately, the kids didn't leave till it was past midnight! It gave Creed time to play with the idea of getting Don onboard, but he figured the kids would simply organise a new outing for a week or two later and Isabel would keep on pestering him to follow Rosie around like a blasted guardian angel.

"Think of it as practice for when Lilia Victoria grows up," she'd said.

Hell if he would be shadowing her like this! He'd simply give a forceful warning to every boy in the area and then he'd let her kick the ass of whoever failed to comply.

By the time the two boys sneaked out, though, Creed had admitted he'd be shadowing the girl no matter what. You just can't trust a horny boy. They'd drink a beer and would forget they'd been threatened with a painful death! And what if some of those kids managed to get an upper hand on her? Because they had a shitty mutant power that actually made them dangerous, for example! Nah. He'd shadow her.

The two boys stopped by another house to collect a third boy before going back to the Devon house. A ten minute wait, and the three girls packed into the jeep. Rosie too. He should have traumatised her a bit more deeply.

* * *

It was all Rosie Moreno had ever wanted, all she had ever dreamed!

Dancing with Marissa, the bonfire raging noisily in front of her while the loudspeakers mounted on a jeep blurted music, she didn't even feel the cold wind that sometimes blew down the slope of Kitchener Mountain. She didn't even care that the music was hip-hop, which she usually grumbled against! There were bottles and cans of beer everywhere, people were laughing, some were making out… It was indeed everything she had expected it to be!

And yet it wasn't.

Mr Kredall had scared the hell out of her. She'd even woken up from nightmares where he attacked her the following nights. But, the thing is, he had wanted to scare her. She wasn't stupid. She knew that guys could take advantage of you if you passed out drunk. It was the kind of thing that happened in every film and TV series; there was no way you couldn't know it was possible to happen. But as much as every adult warned about it, everyone knew it wasn't something that happened constantly. It was simply one possible danger. Like crossing a road without looking and being runover.

However, Mr Kredall had looked at her as if… she didn't know! And then the way he'd said those things. She wasn't a prude, she knew words like cunt. She used them too. But the way he'd said them had been… creepy.

But again, and this was the important thing to keep in mind, he had simply been doing his best to scare her. And he'd been very good at it, no doubt about it. But it had simply been an attempt to scare her into staying locked away from the best party of her life. She had even come to the conclusion that her mother had been the one to ask them to scare her, even though she had been the one to stupidly bring up the topic during her guitar practice. Besides, Mr Kredall himself had said it wouldn't be dangerous for as long as she was careful.

"It's on this small forest service road near Ledville Creek," Derek had told her after she'd nagged him for a while, but she didn't know the area.

"The road follows Goat River through this valley and then we hang a Roger into a dirt road, then we drive up a bit and there's this huge clearing from the logging. It's a perfect spot!"

The idea was to be protected by the valley so that the bonfire couldn't be spotted by nearby residents who'd obviously call the Mounties.

"I'm going to get another beer," Marissa said.

Rosie tagged along. She didn't hang out with that many people from school because of all the time she spent either working at her mother's restaurant or babysitting. She had become good friends with Marissa because they sometimes babysat together, when Rosie's mother organised family-friendly events and then wanted to make sure all the kids would be well looked after while the parents relaxed.

Imogen was something else. She'd been Rosie's first friend when she'd come to Creston and they both loved country music. They shared every secret! Most people at the party, though, were barely acquaintances.

"No, thanks," she said to the guy who handed her a beer.

"Come on," he said. "You're the designated driver or something? Don't be an ass!"

Marissa grabbed the beer and put it in her hand.

"You've barely drunk anything," she laughed. "You've got to unwind, Rosie! Your mother isn't here to bust you. Have fun!"

Rosie took a shy sip. It was her third beer, to be honest, and she had never drunk any alcohol before. Ok, Imogen and she had shared a beer stolen from her father's stash. He had blamed Derek for the missing beer and they'd laughed like crazy all night long. That had been during a sleepover at Imogen's when they were fifteen.

"Shit," Marissa said suddenly, grabbing Rosie by an arm. "My brother's over there!"

The two ran off in the opposite direction and Rosie didn't even have the chance to see who he was kissing. Giggling, they sat on a tarp that had been laid on the floor. Dylan, Marissa's brother, had no idea she had come to the party and she'd rather keep it that way. He was very well capable of ratting her out to their mum.

"Hey, look! It's Wade! Oh, he's _so_ …" She finished with a sigh and Rosie started giggling harder.

Wade Foyle was already twenty or something. He was Ethan's brother, but while Ethan was half-mute, half-idiot with a face to match, Wade looked like a Greek god, or whatever is the utmost of male beauty. And he was so _nice_! He usually picked up Ethan from school and he always ended up chatting with anyone who crossed his way. Especially girls, but he got on with most guys, too. It was a pity Ethan had just graduated. It meant Wade wouldn't be stopping by during Rosie's last school year. Marissa was likely to feel his absence more acutely, though. She had a double crush on him. Triple crush!

Someone threw something into the fire and it started smoking like crazy, letting out a terrible smell. They got up and ran off, trying to keep upwind, but Rosie ended up tripping over a couple making out on the ground and lost her nearly full can of beer.

Laughing, Marissa helped her up and they ran off a bit beyond the lit area.

"Who was it?" Rosie asked. "Did you see?"

"I think it was Brian Dexter. What the hell did they throw in there?"

Rosie shrugged and checked the time: 3.42. She wasn't used to staying up so late and her eyes felt heavy even if she didn't feel sleepy.

"I wonder where Imogen is," she mumbled.

"Having fun!" Marissa answered. "Oh, I have to have a boyfriend for this, next year. It's so much more fun!"

 _fer a guy, the fun is in yer cunt and you don't count fer nuthin'_

The words speared through her brain and she shivered. Imogen had confided that Jaxon had wanted to go a bit further, but she hadn't wanted to go beyond sucking him. Rosie had asked if they had planned something special for tonight, and Imogen had laughed that neither one was interested in getting naked in the middle of the woods, at night and with a bunch of people around.

 _your cunt is the prize every guy is droolin' after_

Jaxon isn't like that! Nevertheless, Rosie felt a bit nervous. The last time she'd seen Imogen, she'd been kissing Jaxon, her hands moving slowly over his butt and his hands under her T-shirt. They'd been by the jeep.

"I'm going to get another beer," Marissa said.

"I'll be by Derek's jeep," she replied.

She wasn't sure if Marissa had heard her. The fact that Wade Foyle was always by the crates of beer explained Marissa's assiduous love for the drink. Soon, she feared, she'd be getting wasted.

 _If a chick is wasted enough, she ain't gonna put up a fight and everyone can take turns at trying her out without a problem._

Oh, she hated having that creepy voice freaking her out inside her head! Worried, she looked for Derek's jeep. It wasn't easy to find it in the dark, but she found it… and her heart stopped beating at what she heard. Mr Kredall's voice echoed in her mind: first, get him away from his friends. Second, pepper spray: aim at the eyes, spray and run away. Then hide and activate beacon. Orange button. But what did she do when it was her best friend being attacked?!

Not knowing what she was doing, she zipped open the pocket of her jacket and got the spray bottle in her hand while getting closer to the jeep.

She could hear him grunting, Jaxon. And Imogen, too! Shivering as if she were in the middle of a blizzard, she clearly heard her friend whimper 'no, wait'. But she couldn't spray him from behind! She had to aim at his eyes, and… and she'd spray Imogen, instead! What could she do?! Whatever it was, she couldn't stand there while he raped her! Maybe he'd turn around.

The door to the back seat was half open and she almost missed the handle but then she yanked it open and Imogen sat up with a scream, Jaxon turned back with a spooked expression. The can of spray in her hand, Rosie couldn't move. She knew she had to aim at his eyes and spray, but she couldn't move. She couldn't even scream for help or yell at him to get off her friend. All she could do was stand there and gape at his dick – which was huge, even if she'd never seen one in real life before, – and at her…

"Rosie, what are you doing?!" Imogen hissed. "Close the door! We're _busy_!"

Her eyes were still stuck below both their waists.

"Rosie, dammit! Get out of here!"

Shivering, she let got of the door and took a step back. Pulling his jeans up, which were pooled around his knees, Jaxon stretched and grabbed the door, his dick wagging weirdly, then he closed it with a 'careful with your legs, Gennie'.

She still stood there, shivering and feeling sick to the pit of her stomach. When she finally managed to move, she took a few blind steps, her stomach feeling more and more sick, then she dropped to her knees and puked.

Despite the foul taste in her mouth, she felt a bit better. It was nerves. Just nerves. And all because Mr Kredall had been so creepy, trying to scare her away. It was all his fault! God! She had been so shaken by the idea that her friend was being raped that… Yuck, she had to drink some water and get rid of that awful taste in her mouth! Her entire body was still shivering, not the cold type of shivering, though. She felt a bit light-headed when she got up, so she stopped, leaned against the nearest car and took a few deep breaths, nice and slow, to cool her head. She really needed to get some water before her mouth got her nauseated again.

Making her way through the crowd, she reached the beer spot.

"I need water," she told some guy that was sitting and drinking by the cases of beer. "I just puked."

"Here," he handed her a beer. "Just swish your mouth with it and spit it out. But not here."

Not here. She sighed, feeling her stomach ready to turn again, and walked past the guy, away from the raging fire and the music and the dancing. She didn't want the smell of puke anywhere near when she returned to the fire side, and she really wanted to sit by the fire. Maybe that weird shivering inside her would stop once she felt the heat of the flames.

A noise got her attention and she looked to her left. About ten feet away, a couple was sucking face. He was pinning her against a car and two other guys were drinking and looking at them as if it were a show. She shook her head and carried on, thinking about Marissa saying that these parties were more fun with boyfriends. Maybe she was right.

"Fuck off," he heard the guy say behind her. "Wait for your turn."

 _everyone can take turns tryin' her out without a problem_

No! Rosie shook her head. Mr Kredall's scare tactic had already gotten her imagining rape and embarrassing her friend. Worse: embarrassing herself! She was not going to do it again. Her night was already ruined thanks to him!

But she still looked back. From her position she could now see that the girl was… The girl was Marissa. She was trying to push him off her… wasn't she? Or was she imagining rape again? Because if that guy kissing her was Wade… Marissa had been pining after him for months! She'd love to make out with him. But was it Wade?

"Marissa?" She called out weakly.

No one reacted, but the way the kissing and groping was going, Marissa might even not have heard. Because Rosie was sure that was Marissa.

"Wade?"

The guy looked at her and one of the other two joked he had too many fans. Should share them around. The cold in her bones intensifying, Rosie took a step forward and called out Marissa's name. She tried to get away but he grabbed her arm.

"Whoa there, honey! You're drunk. If you aren't careful, you'll end up falling and hurting yourself."

"Get off me!" Marissa said as the two guys started laughing.

"Whatever the lady says!" Wade let go of her but then pushed her and she fell flat on the ground. "See? I tried to warn you."

Rosie's brain was once more failing her. She couldn't think. Her hand searched inside the pocket for the spray but it was gone. Instead, her hand closed around the beacon. Hide and activate. Orange button.

Wade crouched by Marissa while the other two laughed their heads off. At first, it looked as if he was trying to help her up, but she shoved his hand away gruffly and he got up, pushed her down with a foot.

Rosie took the locator out of the pocket and looked for the orange button, activated it. Now what? The penknife? No, he'd easily take it out of her hands. It was the spray she needed! How soon would help arrive? They were about half an hour from Creston and… who exactly was going to answer the emergency locator? SAR? She'd heard they were the ones who receive emergency calls from people lost in the woods. It was the Mounties that…

"The Mounties know about the party," she shouted the moment the thought crossed her mind. "We should all get out of here before they show up."

The three guys looked at her and Rosie felt like running away, Mr Kredall's warnings about boys in packs making her feel sick again.

"How the hell do you know that?"

"Someone was saying that. I was looking for Derek because my mum can't find out I'm here. We should all get out of here as fast as possible before the Mounties show up."

"Shit," one of them said.

Her breath fast and shallow, she nevertheless took a step forward.

"Marissa, hurry up! We gotta find Derek and get out of here. My mum is going to kill me!"

"It's just someone drunk and babbling nonsense," Wade said to his friends as Marissa got on all fours and started crawling towards Rosie. "How the fuck would they find out about this?"

Rosie reached out a trembling hand and Marissa grabbed it, pulled herself to her feet.

"D'ya need a ride home?"

Both Rosie and Marissa screamed instinctively, but Rosie recognised Mr Kredall and started crying, saying 'yes, please, please', while grabbing on desperately to Marissa, who also started crying.

He didn't move or say anything, just looked at something behind them, so Rosie looked back in time to see Wade and his two friends take off.

"Quit yer wailin'," he grumbled. "Gimme the locator."

She reached her hand out and he grabbed it with a snort.

"Is this how ya keep it safe on ya? Good thing I mentioned a pocket, huh? Otherwise, ya might have thrown it inta the fire!"

He turned and walked towards the trees. Rosie started following him, but Marissa stopped, scared.

"It's ok. He'll take us home. It's ok."

By the time, they got to his jeep, Marissa had puked twice.

"Ya throw up inside the car," he almost sounded as if he was growling. "And it's the last thing ya two will ever do in yer life. Got it?"

Marissa started crying again. She cried the whole way, Rosie holding her tight, trying to shush her and not annoy Mr Kredall too much. His face seemed frighteningly angry the few times he'd glanced at them. He could never be mistaken for a nice or friendly guy, but in the middle of the night he looked downright scary, even to Rosie.

When he turned into Rosie's street, a different type of fear started creeping into her.

"Uh… maybe we should take Marissa home first," she tried softly.

"I ain't no taxi," he grumbled just before parking. "Get out."

Marissa was just sniffing by now, but then Mr Kredall grabbed her face and looked intently at her eyes. She started crying again immediately.

"Look at me."

Rosie obeyed, wondering what he was trying to see in the darkened street. She didn't ask anything, though, and he didn't explain. Instead, he walked up to the door and knocked as if the world was about to end. A step behind him, Rosie tightened the grip on her crying friend as she waited for her mother to show up.

He knocked again.

Was this what it felt like to be in front of a firing squad? She could hardly breathe.

When the door opened and Rosie saw her mum's eyes wide, her face so pale, her voice sounding so scared.

"Rosie, oh my Rosie, what…?"

She let got of Marissa and fell into her mum's arms, crying like a baby. She'd been so scared that night. So, so scared!

"She ain't drunk," he heard Mr Kredall say. "Had enough brains in her ta only drink a couple beers. But her friend _is_ drunk. Ya may wanna call her parents."

"But… wait!" Her mum said. "What…"

"The sleepover was a scam, lady! A whole bunch of 'em kids went out fer a bush party an' Rosie went with her friends. When this girl here got in trouble, Rosie realised she was in over her head an' called fer help. I warned the Mounties an' got her out. Call the other one's parents, will ya?"

"But how did she call _you_? Why…?"

Rosie was holding on to her mum so hard, the two of them almost lost balance. She heard him breathe out in that way that sounded like a growl.

"Didn't ya tell Isabel ta try an' convince her not ta go ta the party? Well, yer girl got all yuppity with my wife and I made sure ta tell her exactly what guys are after in these parties. But seein' as kids are too dumb ta listen, I gave her a personal locator ta use in case o' trouble. That's how and why she called me. Any more dumb questions? No? Good."

He left then, and Rosie's mum ushered them both in, sat them on the sofa.

"Look at me, my Rosie, and tell me the truth: did anyone hurt you?"

Rosie shook her head.

"They tried to hurt Marissa," she explained. "They were three and I was so scared."

Rosie was surprised when her mum embraced her and kissed her forehead without a word, just holding her tight. Then she realised she was crying too.

"Don't cry, mum. I'm ok. I was just scared, that's all."

She nodded.

"I'm going to phone Marissa's mum. Are you hungry? Do you want to eat something?"

She shook her head and her mum grabbed her face. Her hands were cold.

"You're the most important thing in my life, Rosie. Everything I do, I do to protect you. Because I love you. You know that, right?"

She nodded again, fresh tears coming to her eyes.

"The only reason I don't want you going to parties with boys is not because I don't want you to have fun and enjoy yourself, honey. It's only because I don't want you to make my mistakes."

Rosie's heart shrunk in her chest. Her mum had never told her the name of her father. A couple of years back, Rosie had confronted her about it and her mum, not once looking her in the eye, had told her that her father had wanted the pregnancy to be aborted, or the baby given away, and she had chosen to 'kill' him off her life instead. No names, no time references, nothing. Rosie hadn't been satisfied. She'd talked to her great-aunt and godmother but she'd gotten only a cryptic 'don't upturn old shit, it'll just bring on a fresh bout of stink'. Tonight, though, she thought she knew what type of shit and stink the old lady had been talking around.

"I won't, mum," she said softly, the guessed revelation churning acidly inside. "I promise you. I won't."

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	73. Creston: Dark Futures

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

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 **73\. Creston: Dark Futures**

It had been Vinny Spalding who'd suggested it, naturally, but it had been Lawson who'd set it rolling.

Creed downed his fourth shot of whisky and threw the dart at the target without a problem, careful not to have it hit bullseye.

"Jacob, you're next!"

The man shook his head.

"I still got to drive home, and someone has to be sober to take Harland."

Harland laughed and downed a shot before missing the target altogether.

"Hey, that didn't count! Let me do it again."

There was a bit of a kerfuffle, but the guy ended up having his second try nonetheless. Creed sat next to Colin, waiting for the rest of the guys' turns.

"When are you heading down?"

"In a couple o' days," Creed said. "We'll probably stay till the end of August. Or until I get a call fer a job, whatever happens first."

Isabel would want to spend the entire summer at their brand new beach house, but as much as he was looking forward to teaching his Lil' Devil how to swim in the artificial pool, he really wasn't a beach person. Two weeks was more than enough. He should, however, invest in a swimming pool nearer to home. That little pond that came with the Gabrielson's property was also a good spot to teach the girl, but it wasn't private, since anyone could drop in whenever. Unfortunately, there wasn't a single spot in his property that was appropriate to build a pond. Hudnal's terrain had a little creek that filled a slight depression which could be enlarged into a natural pool, but the transaction hadn't been finished yet.

"So you'll be back for the SAR fundraising, then. Ready to face an army of kiddies and teach them what to do if they ever get lost in the woods?"

Creed snorted.

"Yeah, right. I got a job set fer that day. When was it again?"

"First day of school. You don't happen to need an extra hand for that job of yours, eh?" The guy laughed. "Seriously, I don't know how Harland puts up with his students. Teenagers aren't so bad, but little kids? They're never cute for more than five seconds!"

"Does that mean ya don't think _my_ Lil' Devil's cute?"

The guy laughed that she was an exception. She was cute for whole five minutes. It sometimes even stretched to six!

Creed laughed at that. Colin had seen his baby girl maybe two or three times, when the guy had stopped by the house to pick him up on the way to a SAR emergency, and he doubted they'd shared the same air for more than a minute at best.

"Why don't ya bail out o' the kiddy scheme, then?"

"We need the money for new equipment, remember? You already got experience with your kid. I bet you'd be great at instructing them."

"My Lil' Devil ain't a brat. If I can muzzle an' put a leash on 'em kids, count me in; otherwise, ferget about it." It occurred to him he wasn't being very community-oriented so he hurried to add: "Ya can count on Isabel, though. She'll love ta help out wi' the food an' drink stalls. And I _will_ give a hand settin' up anythin' ya need. Just don't strap me with no kids."

The guy grumbled a 'thanks a lot' then asked how Isabel was doing, Creed's good mood swerved into the red instantly.

"Why the fuck are ya askin' 'bout _my_ wife?"

He spit it before he could check himself, but Colin had stopped getting riled over Creed's sudden bad tempers. For as long as he didn't get physical, that is.

" _My_ wife happened to ask me to ask you about her. You got a problem with my wife worrying about yours?"

"Yeah, I do! It ain't none of her business. Isabel's just fine! Why the fuck is everyone always askin' 'bout her?! Tell her to worry 'bout her own life."

"Fuck it, man!" Colin got up as someone stretched out a shot of whisky for him. "You're the one who needs a muzzle! Why the hell do you drink when you know it makes your temper even shorter!"

Creed held back a snarl and glanced about him. Isabel had just recovered from her third miscarriage and they were both still a bit raw over it, even if it had been another easy one. And he hated it, he really hated it, when people started asking about her. As if she was a lil' sickly frail! He had nearly had to threaten to tie her to the bed again, because she had once more insisted she was fine. Just fine! Would any other frail have the guts to go about cleaning the house and cooking and what not in her shoes? No! They'd curl up in bed as if it were the end of the world.

He shook his head, taking a deep breath in order to curb his anger. Fucking third miscarriage! After a moment of weakness on the third night of the miscarriage, when they'd both curled tightly together – not a word to break the spell – Creed now refused to admit to himself he'd rather the woman curled up in bed all day long crying her heart out. Ok, maybe not all day long, but… At least he'd be able to lie next to her and shush all their pain away. Her pain, he meant.

The only thing she had let him do was hire cleaning services to take care of the house and, again, under threat of being tied to the bed. But every freaking night, she insisted the damned kitchen had to be swept. Because a hall, or a den, or even a bedroom could accumulate a little dust without much problem, but not the kitchen, no ma'am. The kitchen had to be swept every fucking night after dinner. It had really pissed him off, especially when he'd taken the damned broom off her hands and his Lil' Devil had laughed that Pappa was doing Mamma's work.

"No!" Isabel had told her immediately. "That is my job because I want it to be my job. It doesn't mean your father can't do it. Sweeping is not just for Mammas, do you understand? It's for everyone who likes to live in a clean house. It is just that I like doing it my way so I want to do it and I do it so your father never has the chance to do it even if he wants to!"

And then she'd proceeded to drag herself up the stairs so she could cry alone. How many more miscarriages before they could start taking it in stride? No dramas, no shit, no nothing. Just another normal thing that was part of life. Sometimes he thought one hundred wouldn't be enough to dull the pain that cut him up at yet another loss. All his life had been about loss, whether it was him making someone lose something or it was someone making him lose something. He could handle the pain. He just wanted it to get a bit less sharp.

He shook his head and his eyes fell on Don. He wasn't the chattiest guy at Track Bar, but he looked downright miserable tonight, a bit of a fierce edge in his expression. Just the thing to distract himself with.

"Ya're trying ta get the prize fer the gloomiest asshole in this joint, Donny boy?"

"Fuck off," he slurred.

Creed frowned. Don had said he wasn't interested in playing drinking games, but Creed suddenly realised his eyes were having trouble focusing. He was probably more drunk than all the players put together.

"Kredall, my man! It's _your_ turn! Ready or not, here – we – go!"

Ok, maybe Don wasn't the drunkest in the place, as Lawson was on his way to be seriously wasted. He got up and glanced at Harland, who seemed fine, though he was tipsy. For a primary school teacher, he could take a whole lot of alcohol. Someone had mentioned he had had a lot of practice as a teenager and Creed remembered that his hunting expeditions involved drinking. He still thought it was weird for a kiddies teacher. Colin could soak up a lot of alcohol with his bulk, and Vinny… well, Vinny was Vinny.

Creed downed his fifth shot, shook his head as if he needed to focus and took a bit longer to aim before throwing his dart. Bullseye!

"I gotta start drinkin' 'fore I play darts," he laughed.

"Don't you worry," Vinny chortled. "I'll still win. It's the one who plays fer longer that piles up the highest score."

Creed slid down to the bar counter and called Nelson.

"How much has Don had?"

"Way too much than the usual."

Yeah, anyone with eyes could see that. At least grumpy Old Benny had left the bar already, or he'd be breathing down the Mountie's neck saying he was a loser who didn't derserve his wife. Drinking himself into a stupor while the poor innocent lil' lady was all alone at home, abandoned, ignored and neglected. Half-way abused, even! Good thing Colin had said he was in hot water with his own wife for having forgotten her birthday right at the beginning of the night.

"I didn't really forget it or anything," he had explained. "I just hadn't realised it was August 4 already."

Benny hadn't wasted the opportunity to say he didn't deserve his wife. To forget her own birthday! It just showed how much respect he really had for her. Creed usually did his best to stay out of the man's way after that time he'd nearly strangled him. When he wanted to phone Isabel, for example, he always headed outside. It was the best approach, anyway, since there'd be no one to overhear whatever he decided to say. But that judgemental old face still made his claws itch. It didn't matter if Benny's target for the night was Harland or even Nelson – what bigoted jerk would leave his wife alone all night long to work at a bar!

Seriously, Creed hated that asshole with all his being – and it didn't comfort him none that the hate was mutual. Colin, on the other hand, had chuckled at the telling off.

"Hmm. Maybe I should get a divorce, eh? Because Elsa totally forgot our wedding anniversary – and that was no day mix up – and what does it say about her commitment to our marriage, eh? Maybe _she_ just don't plain deserve me!"

The general laughter had drove the hateful old man into a fury and he'd left shortly after. Creed almost wished he could control his own hate and subsequent fury long enough to pull that kind of stunt.

"He'll need someone to take him home, for sure," Nelson said furtively over the counter. "Do you know what got him drinking like that? 'Cause, let me tell you, it's very out of character for him."

"Hey, Kredall! It's down to you and me, pal! These pansies have all given up already! Let's show them how much real men can down without falling over, eh!"

He lifted up two shot glasses. A couple of months back, Vinny had been challenged to drink an entire bottle of whiskey. He'd refused to chug it down, though, and he gave it up shortly after he hit the three quarters mark. I can hold my liquor, but I'm not stupid, he'd said. While it had been ascertained that Creed and Colin were the two guys who could drink the most after Vinny, Vinny was still the undeniable champion of drinking. Creed had felt the urge to drink the little shit under the table a few times, but that would endanger his cover so he always held back. Tonight, though, he didn't really care about it.

"Count me out."

"OK, guys, you know the drill," Nelson called out. "If you want your car keys back, you got to pass the breathalyzer test."

Tyrone Warren had been the one to impose the rule: if you were going to play drinking games at his bar, you left your car keys at the counter and got them back if you were below the drinking limit. Otherwise, they were welcome to sit back, down a few more beers and then Cyril would drive them home when the bar closed at midnight. Not only the old man got the guys to spend a bit more on drinks, but Cyril also got paid a fee for each guy he transported.

Behind him, Vinny called out to Cyril he had one customer to drive.

"There's a reason I don't even bring my car anymore," he laughed before downing the two shots. "Bring me a beer, will ya? I gotta do something for the next hour. Hell, bring me three beers!"

"Ready to go?" Nelson asked, getting the breathalyzer.

If Creed wasn't careful, his screening would always show up as 0.0. His trick was to burp so the machine had mouth alcohol to measure and give a number. It was always around 0.03.

"Sometimes I think this thing's broken. You never have more than this! I bet you could drink more than Vinny if you felt like it," Nelson commented. "Here's your key."

But then he looked at Don and lowered his voice again.

"He wasn't playing, so I don't have his car key. Do you mind giving him a lift so he doesn't get behind the wheel?"

Creed really didn't feel like it, but wat the hell! At least he wouldn't get all chitty-chatty like Colin did. He nodded and turned, in time to see Don push Colin away with a curse. For a moment, everyone in the bar froze. Who the hell would have said Donnie boy was a mean drunk, huh?

He got up to leave and Colin reached out a hand to grab him by the shoulder. Don was a lean guy, not a match for the bulky logger. If Colin decided to get a hold of the Mountie and immobilise him, he would, especially catching him from behind, when Don wasn't expecting it.

Creed leaned back on the bar to watch the show, but he lost his smirk when Don turned, grabbed Colin's wrist and pulled the man forward, getting him off balance before punching him in the face. He'd used his telepathy to prepare against the attack!

Without a word, Don left the bar. Creed followed him outside instinctively.

This was not good. As far as he knew, there were only two mutants in town, his baby girl aside, and if Don messed up and exposed himself, there might be a witch hunt. He was not about to let it happen.

Don's car was near the entrance, and Creed had to catch him before any asshole decided to follow them outside. Being used to telepaths, he buffed up his mental shields then thought out his move in detail: grab him by the arm, pulling it back and twisting till he got to his knees.

A second before closing his hand on the man's neck, Don fell to a crouch while turning his body and punched Creed in the stomach as hard as he could. More than the blow, it was the surprise that made him stagger back – most telepaths would have fallen for that ruse! – but it was a second. Even if he was a strong enough telepath to distinguish between fake intentions and real ones, he couldn't block Creed's blows for long. Growling, he protected his mind as best he could and lunged forward. It didn't take long for Don to find himself lying on the cement with a hand tightening around his neck.

"Ya fuckin' go inside my head again, and I slit yer throat, jackass!" He hissed, aware there were people running in their direction. "Stay down an' don't ya dare show off yer powers again!"

He raised a hand and looked back.

"It's ok! He's feelin' calmer now. Much, much calmer."

Nelson and Vinny were at the front of the group, Colin coming in close behind with Harland and Jacob.

"Don't say a fucking word," Creed hissed at Don, even though the guy's body had gone slack.

He let go of the neck but remained crouched by his side, just in case he got stupid again.

"I'm gonna take 'im home," he said, but then he saw Colin, his lip dripping blood and couldn't help a laugh. "Bet ya wasn't expectin' 'im ta be a sleazy lil' scrapper, huh? That was a hell of a slug he gave ya!"

"Shut the fuck up," Colin grunted. "The hell's wrong with him!"

Creed shrugged.

"Go wash that up," he sneered. "Like I said, I got 'im covered. No sweat. And he ain't that drunk."

Creed looked at him and did a mock first aid analysis, grabbing his wrist. That dumb first aid course he'd been forced into had to be useful for something!

"Breathin' ain't shallow or irregular, normal pulse, face is neither moist nor reddened… and the way he slugged you clearly speaks fer relatively unimpaired motor skills. He only needs ta get home an' sleep it off."

Colin grumbled and went back to the bar. Nelson went off too, since he couldn't leave the place unattended.

"Do you need help getting him to your car?" Cyril offered.

"There's no need, boy. Just get 'em all back inside an' see if Lawson doesn't get belligerant, too. He's way more wasted than Don!"

"Oh, not him. A puppy causes more trouble than he does when he's drunk. He just sleeps like a baby."

Creed watched them all go back before looking down at Don. His eyes were glazed over as he stared blindly at the sky above him.

"There's one thing I agree with Colin," he grumbled. "What the hell _is_ wrong with ya? Get up!"

He pulled him up and was glad to see the guy was steady on his feet. He was about to tell him to come along and head to his car, when Don told him to stop following him. Huh?

"I don't need an escort," he kept on. "I can find my way home just fine."

He started walking out of the car park and Creed realised he meant to walk home. Was he stupid? His house was about a mile away!

"I ain't walkin' you home, dumbass! Get in the car 'fore I…"

"Yes, you will," the guy grumbled. "Go away! Shoo."

There was something not adding up in his behavior, and being drunk didn't explain all of it. The asshole was telling him he didn't want no company, and yet he seemed to know Creed was going to follow. When he had no intention to do so! If he was a telepath, he knew there was no way he was going to walk a fucking mile to the guy's house, and then another to come get his car.

"Stop following me!" He shouted from the road.

What the fuck? Creed hadn't taken a single step. And no, he was not going to walk him home. Being drunk got folks to lose control over their powers, but this was not what he expected from a drunk telepath. He expected him to be reading his mind without even meaning to, which was why Creed was holding up his mental shields. Come to think of it, he hadn't felt any intrusion in his mind. Was Don… imagining thoughts in other people's minds?

Creed went after him silently, his mind as shut as if he was being mentally attacked right now, and was about to grab the guy by the neck when he suddenly evaded his movement and shouted to be left alone. He grabbed him by the neck nonetheless. At the third attempt!

"How the fuck can ya read my mind without me noticin' it?"

"Eh?" He stopped fighting and frowned. "Read your mind? I don't read minds, you jerk! I'm not a fuckin' telepath."

Creed let go of him.

"What are ya then?"

He shrugged and started walking again.

"Hell if I know!" The guy grumbled.

Creed followed with a growl.

"Do I have ta beat ya up ta get an answer?"

He laughed, a single hollow cackle.

"You aren't going to beat me. You are going to pester me all the way home. I know. I don't know how I know, but I know. I know. I know what you people are going to do even before you yourselves know." His voice became a monotone whisper. "It's usually just a few seconds, but sometimes… it's just like playing chess and seeing all the possible moves and then knowing, just damn knowing which one is going to happen. Seconds. A whole bunch of seconds. Great thing in a fight!"

And he broke out laughing.

"A low-level precognitive." Creed said, putting an end to the guy's empty mirth.

"Eh? A what?" Creed repeated and asked him what else he could do. "Oh, lots! You have no idea! For one, I can see how stupid people are. Everyone around me. Walking stupid jerks. Except you! You… you are a _cynical_ jerk. My kind of jerk."

Creed shook his head as he got to laughing again. Fucking babysitting a chatty drunk!

"Yeah? What type of jerk is your wife, then?"

He had expected him to get violent, instead he got this distressed expression that almost got Creed laughing.

"Oh, no, not Amber. Amber… oh, you have no idea what Amber is like!" He walked back towards Creed as if he was going for a hug and Creed took a step back, growling a warning. "Amber… Oh, she's… beautiful! She shines and floats and…"

"Shut yer yap, Donny boy," Creed evaded the incoming hug and put a hand over his shoulders. If he was going to get mushy at mentioning his wife, it was better to focus on something else entirely. "Let's get ya walkin' in the right direction first. Now, ferget 'bout yer floaty wife an' explain ta me how exactly ya can tell what kinda stupid jerk a person is?"

"That's easy. You just look at them! They're full of petty hate and resentment. Little drama queens. Can't stand them! And they smile like they're oh so nice, but there's a load of smelly shit underneath them all. Sometimes they're saying… they're saying 'yes, sir, Mr Mountie, sir' and inside their seething at you and they can't wait to see you turn so they can go right back to what they're doing. And they're all so simple-minded! They're stuck inside those little heads of theirs, their little petty worlds… like nothing else exists!"

Ok, so…

"Ya can read folks' emotions. Ya're an empath with precog abilities."

Because if he claimed he wasn't a telepath, the only other way of knowing what was going on inside a person was through reading their emotions.

"Emotions. Yeah. Emotions. And you?"

Creed hesitated, but if he was going to take advantage of the guy's sharing disposition he had to play along, so he said 'feral' and quickly asked what he saw within him.

"Feral… feral… what's that supposed to mean?"

"Heightened senses," Creed growled, deciding to keep his healing-factor as a hidden ace. "Animal-like senses. Now what d'ya see in me?"

"Oh, you're a mercenary. You kill like you breathe. Not like Miles and most people, no. They're anger is blind. Hot and very much blind. Or tunnel-vision, eh? Only see that one person they hate. You're cold like ice. When you start losing control, then it gets hotter, it gets… a bit more like Miles, I guess. Only you know there's no one that can stop you, and everyone else knows they're going to be stopped, one way or the other. Fear. They have fear, you don't. And there's your baby girl, too. She shines inside you, and all that anger and frustration of yours cool away. And then your wife gets pregnant and there's fear, and your girl's light isn't enough to shine it away because… You know, you need more kids. You need more shining lights holding you down."

Creed didn't say anything. That idea that his baby girl held him down… On the one hand, it annoyed him, but on the other hand, it was true. He'd realised that years ago. On those first days after he'd returned from hunting his past. Her scent had something in it that calmed him. She had cured him of his berserker rages, for example. When was the last time he'd gone berserk? He didn't even know! Sure, keeping a close watch over Isabel ever since she'd gotten pregnant meant he had fewer chances to get into scraps that led into a rage, but… let's be honest: he'd gone berserk because a waiter had taken too long to give him a drink. Before his baby girl, he'd never gone more than a couple months without going nuts, and that was when he was at his calmest.

And since he was being honest with himself, right now, it felt good not losing control and flying off his handle at the drop of a hat. In fact, it…

"Benny's right," Don mumbled, cutting off Creed's line of thought.

He expected him to keep on talking, but the guy just went silent. Although he was curious about what Benny was right, Creed kept his mouth shut. He didn't want to trigger him into more monologues. He had all the information he wanted from the man right now, no need for…

"We don't deserve them," he mumbled even lower after a few minutes.

"Don't deserve what?" Creed growled against his best judgement.

Why the hell was he still walking the asshole home? He already had the information he needed! He knew his powers and how they worked; he knew what the little jerk had read from him… He didn't need anything else!

"Our wives."

What the fuck! Creed stopped with a start, but the guy kept on walking.

"We take them away from their homes, make them give up everything they want. We force them to choose between us and everything they love the most, and then we make sure they'll choose us over everything else. We ruin their happiness. We destroy them."

Creed's instinct was to literally kick some sense into that drunk head, but the idea that he didn't deserve his fine woman echoed inside his head and froze him… a memory. Just a stupid memory, he told himself, and it wasn't even about him! But then Isabel. He had forced her out of her home country, the one she kept trying to bring closer through the flowers and stuff. There was a reason she always spoke in Portuguese, when she wasn't in public, and it wasn't just because their Lil' Devil needed contact with the language. Only she was happy. He made sure she was happy! Just because he'd forced her away from everything she held dear… she was still happy and she was so because of him!

"I didn't destroy nuthin'!" He growled.

Don stopped and looked back.

"Amber was the most beautiful, happy thing I've ever seen," he said dolefully. "And I killed her."

Huh? Surely he didn't mean that literally. Normal people usually didn't, even if Creed had the tendency to accept admissions of murder at face value. He did work mostly with hitmen, after all.

"What d'ya mean, ya killed her?"

"I've told you! She was bright and happy. Her hole being was light and floated. Bubbly. Her happiness was bubbly and every time she looked at me, she… I don't know, she gave me some of it and it was as if we both floated away from all the dark, heavy jerks around us. That was how she loved me. She gave me happiness in such a way, that… And now… I brought her to this god-forsaken hole away from everything she loves. No theatre, no festivals, no music, no friends. Her happiness shrivelled away into this dark, hateful hole that lets out fear and hate. She gave me love, and I turned it into hate."

Right, not a literal kill.

"I thought I was better than my father," he droned on, walking heavily. "He loved my mother. He said it over and over again how much he loved her. But his love was heavy and dark. Not a shred of it was around when he beat her, but then it always came back. It was so thick I almost couldn't breathe, at times. He only ever hit her when he was drunk, anyway. It made him forget how much he loved her."

Right. And yet, Creed couldn't stop remembering how Isabel had said there are many types of love. Fizzy love, for instance. He chuckled.

"But I'm so much worse than him! I never even loved her! All I ever did was feed off her love until it was gone."

Yeah, that sucked.

"So, she's gonna dump ya, huh?"

A wiff of tears.

"Shit, man! Ya ain't gonna fall that low, are ya! Get a hold of yerself!" Creed hurried up to see if this doleful march ended faster. "So she don't love ya no more. So what? It ain't the end of the world!"

And yet that idea troubled him. Because Isabel loved him adoringly, true, but that love could also die.

"I want to love her more than anything!" He sniffed, and Creed had to slow down or lose him behind. "How can you not understand that? You love your wife so deeply!"

He what?

"I _don't_ …"

Wait, cover story! Don't blow it. It was actually a good thing the guy was saying that! And then it hit him: he had tricked an empath into thinking he was in love with Isabel. He had… He let out a laugh! How the hell had he tricked a fucking empath into thinking he was in love?!

"It's all I want," the guy carried on. "To love her and give her back her happiness. I just want to love her the way you love your wife! I've been trying to do it so hard and… I don't know how. I don't know… how can I love her? Tell me! How do I do it?"

This was getting weird.

"Just… keep her happy. If she's happy, she'll do anythin' ta keep ya happy, an' then everyone's happy."

He shook his head and Creed shrugged, said it worked for him. Hell, if that strategy had tricked an empath into thinking… Wait, a minute.

"Tell me one thing, Donny boy. How exactly do ya know I love Isabel?"

He shook his head.

"Nothing else exists for you but her," he said. "Nothing exists for you but your daughter and your wife. They keep you centered and stable. Grounded. Because nothing exists beyond them."

Well, if that was the hallmark of love, obsessed stalkers were the most head-over-feet in love folks in the world! What the hell did the guy know, anyway? If his father beat the shit out of his mother and he thought he loved her… Hell, he'd probably confuse hate and love! That's what happens when you don't develop your powers. Creed wasn't thinking about going to places like the X-Men's stupid school for mutant kids, even if that was a way to go about it. When you have a special skill, you work on it, you stretch it to its limits and you learn everything about it. Donny boy sounded as if he'd gone through life only half using his powers. An empath is supposed to know about emotions, for crying out loud, and he couldn't even tell the difference between love and… whatever his father felt for his woman!

"Ya don't know shit 'bout nuthin'," Creed grumbled. "Just keep on walking, will ya!"

"Love is tricky," Don mumbled behind him. "People say love and sometimes all they feel is lust. Sometimes it isn't even lust! A meth addict can feel about drugs the same way some girls feel about their boyfriends. It's the weirdest thing. Possessiveness, too. You and Isabel, for example. You both have that 'mine' feel."

Creed stopped.

"Look at me. Ya gonna tell me exactly and in the greatest detail ya possibly can how Isabel feels about me, get it?" The guy frowned and he added an incentive. "I'll tell ya how ya can fall in love with yer wife."

He snorted with a ridiculous sound.

"I can tell a fucking lie from a mile away," he crossed the road and started walking with a briskier pace.

Fine, whatever! Creed jogged to catch up.

"Ya tell me what I wanna know, and I'll tell ya every fuckin' trick I know ta make yer woman happy."

He stopped suddenly.

"You'd do that for me?"

"No, I'll do it fer the info ya're gonna gimme. Now tell me: what does Isabel's love for me look like?"

He hesitated just a second, then he shook his head.

"Fear."

Creed took a step back. What? It couldn't…

"That's all I get from her. Fear, and fear, and more fear." He shrugged exageratedly. "I have no idea what makes her so afraid of me. There's also a bit of suspicion and avoidance about other men, but I blow her fear fuses."

"Well, she had a bad experience with a telepath an' she thinks you're one," he growled. "What else? How does she feel about _me_ , you idiot!"

"Oh, you? Uh… There's this 'mine' feel and this… 'protect me' feel. Like nothing can hurt her when you're at her side."

"That ain't got nuthin' ta do with love!"

"And what the hell is love, eh? Anyway, fear is mostly what I feel from her. It blocks everything else. There's this fire inside her. Not like a wildfire; more like the intense heat you feel when you open an oven. Concentrated, focused, controlled. Lust! Yeah. Way more on your side – way, way more! – but I've felt lust under her fear. Frustration, too. Lots of frustration."

It still had nothing to do with love! What kind of empath the asshole was that he'd never been able to feel how intense it was? For a moment it made him wonder if she really did love him that much.

"I'm gonna tell 'er ya ain't no telepath." Wait, being an empath wouldn't feel much safer to the woman. "And don't ya tell her ya're an empath either, ya hear? I'll tell her ya're a low level precog an' she'll stop fearin' bein' near ya. Then ya'll feel how strong her love fer me is. It's all devotion an' smiles! Big shiny eyes. Ya'll see. There's no woman loves no one as much as she loves me."

Don snorted.

"That's what I used to think," he mumbled acidly.

Creed's growl died when his phone came alive. Isabel? Why would she be calling him?

"What is it? Is anythin' wrong? Are ya ok?"

"I'm fine," her voice sounded strained. "Amber phoned me. She and Don had this big fight and he left the house in a fury. He hasn't returned yet and she's getting worried. Did you see him at the bar?"

Creed glanced at the guy who was walking glomily along the road.

"He's drunk," he told her. "I got stuck babysittin' 'im. We're about half-way ta his place. We ain't walkin' that fast, so it may be about twenty minutes or so till we get there."

Isabel's sigh of relief brought a light growl of aggravation to his throat.

"Did he tell you anything about what happened? Amber is a mess. She didn't go into details, but I think she may have told him she has had enough of living here, or with him, I'm not sure. She told me she said some things she shouldn't have, but I'm not sure what exactly. What did Don say?"

He shrugged.

"He's drunk! He spewed some drivel 'bout havin' sucked all her love an' happiness dry, an' now all he wants is ta find a way ta give it all back ta her. Says he _killed_ her!"

And he snorted at the stupidity. If the woman was kicking up hell against him, she was far from being dead.

"Victor, can I please ask you a big favour?"

"No," he spit, already guessing what she wanted.

"Tell him to get home and to say he loves her."

"I ain't gonna be playin' at no match-makin', Isabel!"

"But it's important!" She pleaded. "Think about it this way: if you can help him get over his marital problems, he'll owe you big time. Really big time! Don't tell me that isn't something worth your time."

He growled, but she was right.

"Jut convince him to tell her… I don't know! I'm not sure what exactly the problem is. But if he just gets home and says he loves her and that he wants to talk through the problem… I'm going to phone her, and I'm going to try and calm her down, so she doesn't start a fight when he gets back. Listen, I'm going to tell her that he got drunk and started telling everyone how much he loves her, how he can't… he can't imagine life without her! Would that be embelishing it a bit too much?"

He rolled his eyes.

"I was the only one he talked to, so yeah, tone it down."

"Ok, then he gushed at you how much he loves her until you were ready to barf."

That had him chuckling darkly.

"That sounds more or less spot on. I'm definitely retchin' over the whole mess!"

He put away the phone and hurried up. It didn't take him long to catch up with the guy.

"Let me guess," Don drone bitterly. "Amber phoned your wife and she's ready to kick me out."

Creed couldn't help wonder how much of that scenario was his precognitive abilities and how much was his shiny optimism.

"Not exactly. Ya wanna have yer bubbly lovin' wife back? Here's what ya gonna do. Ya're gonna get in her face an' tell her ta shut up. Then ya're gonna tell her…"

There was a bunch of sweet talking he could go about, but Isabel had mentioned talking their way out of the hole and sweet talking was always better to disguise the problem, not fix it. Oh, that's it!

"Tell her ya wanna build yer life with her." No, wait. That sounded more like not-yet-married kind of talk. "That ya can't imagine yer life without her."

A bit of sweet talking couldn't harm too much.

"But ya gotta know what she wants an' make sure she has it."

"She wants me to quit being a Mountie."

O-kay. Creed could see how that was not going to work out.

"Anythin' else she wants? Somethin' sensible an' feasible, would be nice."

He shrugged weakly.

"It's likely I'll be posted somewhere else at the end of the year. She won't come with me when that happens."

Then Creed's effort to help out the guy was pretty much worthless. He wouldn't stick around long enough for him to collect the favour.

They walked in silence for a long while. There really wasn't anything else to be said. The only solution out of his problem was not getting sent elsewhere, and how was that going to happen? It would take knowing someone within the hierarchy.

Don stopped with a tired sigh.

"Look, I know you don't give a shit about nobody. I know you think most people around you are stupid and you have no respect for almost nobody. But there are some people who are worth your time. Being a Mountie helped me understand that. Being a Mountie… helps me to be what I want to be. Anyway, I just wanted to say that… I appreciate you're trying to help and everything but… I look ahead and I see what's going to happen."

He squatted and ran a finger over the cement of the sidewalk.

"It's right here." He ran it again next to the invisible line he'd just traced. "If I go where I'm sent, I go alone. If I do like Nelson and give it up… it's dark and lonely all the same. There's nothing that can be done to change it."

Creed squatted next to the guy and opened his big mouth without thinking:

"Sure there is! All it takes is knowin' who's gonna handle yer postin' an' fixin' it so ya ain't sent nowhere."

"It isn't that simple," he said hoarsely. "You can't just…"

Creed snorted.

"I've done way harder stuff! This is kid's play."

And it was only then he realised he'd just volunteered to handle the fix. After all, he couldn't boast it was as easy as done and then say no, thanks. It would be like admitting he couldn't pull it off. Fuck! He'd done the same blasted thing so many times before, and he never learned! How many times had Mystique played him into stupid schemes using this same trick? Or Riptide and Scalphunter! Damn it all to hell!

"Ya're gonna owe me big time, Don. And I mean _big_ time." He growled at himself. "Anythin' turnin' brighter in yer future yet?"

He looked at the ground and frowned, started running his finger over it again.

"I don't know. I may be a bit too drunk to see clearly."

Or he was still stuck in his well of dark hopelessness. Whatever!

"If I fuckin' waste my time fixin' yer postings an' this mess with yer wife still goes down the drain, I'm gonna be pissed as hell. Get walkin'! Ya get there, and ya say whatever the fuck ya gotta say ta cool her down, got it? Don't fuckin' mention no postings. Just make sure ya know what she wants, all the tiny lil' things that matter ta her, an' then make sure she has 'em all. Got it? Just find what every damned thing that makes her happy then fuckin' make her happy. There's all there is to it!"

You keep her happy, and she'll keep you happy in return. How could a blasted empath not know that by now?

* * *

Creed hadn't stuck around. The moment he'd seen the guy at his porch searching for his keys, he'd turned back and jogged back to the Track Bar, long closed by now. Then he drove home as fast as the empty roads allowed.

What he hadn't expected was to find Isabel outside, in the kitchen yard.

There was a barbecue by the house and a table for eating outside on nice warm days. Then, closer to the fence, there was a wooden swing nested in a pergola. Isabel's grape vines were supposed to have grown to cover it, but now it was a hardy wisteria variety that was slowly growing upwards. The swing was slanted so that whoever was swinging could face the path to the house, rather than the house itself. She waved at him and, instead of heading to the garage, he parked in front of the yard.

"Whatch'ya doin' outside?"

"I was waiting for you," she said in English, which in itself was weird since she always spoke in Portuguese when at home. "De night is so pretty!"

Uh-huh. She was wrapped in a wide blanket and, while the early August night wasn't cold at all, the sky was covered by clouds that hid the stars while the moon was nowhere to be seen. Aren't 'pretty' nights supposed to be all starry and moony?

"Right. Why are you outside again?"

She sighed and embraced her legs, forming a sort of legless cocoon, the action causing the swing to rock gently.

"I was tired of be inside the house," she said quietly. "And is not cold. I only have de blanket because a person always feels cold when she sits outside widout moving for long. You don't sit wid me?"

He didn't really see a reason to do it, no. He lept over the fence rather than use the little gate and got closer.

"I told you about my idea for dat fence?"

The one about advancing it so one could walk from one yard to the next without having to go through the house?

"Yeah, but there's time. After we get back from California, I'll focus on the overview. Then I'll take care o' the fence."

"I prefer call it 'watchtower'. Sounds more… no one can approximate widout be caught!"

He chuckled.

"Ya can't really watch nobody approachin' from there. All ya can see is the other side o' the Valley!"

Her hand sneaked out from inside the blankets and caught his, took it to her mouth for a gentle kiss. He relented and sat down. There was no reason to stand there like…Wait a minute!

"Is that yer guitar?"

She laughed lightly. Said she was practicing his song so she could play without having to look at the instrument.

"And I don't wake Lilia Victoria if I play outside."

The night was warm, not a breeze. It was dark, too. It was perfect for simply relaxing outside. Isabel leaned on him and he put a hand over the blanket, but then he pulled it away from her enough for his arm to rest on her skin. That was better.

Wrapped in the sweet scent of his woman, the sound of the crickets lulled him into a sedate mood.

"D'ya know that Mounties get shipped around every few years? Sometimes thousands o' miles away from their previous posting."

Her face moved on his shoulder and her warm breath tickled his neck.

"No. Amber didn't tell me nothing. Is dat de problem of deir fights?"

He shrugged.

"It was Don's, anyways. He ain't no telepath, ya can relax 'bout that. He's a low-level precognitive. It means he can tell the future. Just a few seconds in advance, maybe a few events further in the future. But I got a feelin' he only gets a very vague idea. He said all he saw in his future was darkness an' loneliness. He figured that it meant Amber wouldn't wanna go with him to his next postin' an' chagin' careers ain't an option fer him."

Isabel's sigh was hotter against his skin.

"I'm so sorry. I really like Amber and makes me so sad to see her so unhappy. I wish I could help! I convinced her to tell Don – at least I think I convinced her – to tell him dat she misses him. Dat he used to arrive home and hug her and kiss her and now he avoids her. Dat kind of thing kills her inside! And den she starts thinking he has a lover and… Oh, poor Amber!"

He frowned.

"Don't get so worked up over her," he grumbled. "'Sides, I'm gonna fix it so Don doesn't get posted elsewhere."

She sat up, away from him, and he growled softly.

"You can do dat?!"

"Course I can," he growled louder. "It's the easiest thing in the world!"

When you knew the right person with the right dirt to apply the right pressure. Which he didn't! How the hell was he gonna pull it off?

Isabel's kiss on his neck made him forget about it, and he rubbed her back. Then realised her shoulders were getting cold. Even though he'd rather stay outside, he said it was better to go in.

"I don't want," she nestled more comfortably against him. "I want stay here wid you and enjoy de night. I have to practice too! We're going to hike in September and I can't spend de night complain of cold, can I?"

"I'll make sure ya won't feel cold," he promised.

The idea hit him suddenly, and he got off the swing, started preparing a fire in front of the swing. While he worked, Isabel got her guitar and started singing his song in whispers. He grinned up at her as the first flames licked the wood. She looked so amazing, sitting there, her black hair cascading over one shoulder, a carefree smile and that deep voice promising to love him devotedly till the end of her days.

For a moment, he wanted Don to be around, just so he could see her right now and then tell him exactly how deep her love was. He'd painted his wife's former love as bright and floaty, had probably forgotten to add colorful and glittery and full of pink unicorns, which sounded very teenage and immature to Creed. How could anyone yearn for a woman's blind glittery love? He bet Isabel's love looked like a mile-thick column of steel. It might not sound all pretty and cheesy, but he'd rather have solidity over pretty any day.

He joined her in the swing, the heat of the fire starting to glow before them.

"Oh, now you make me not want go to California! I want stay here in your arms de entire night wid dis pretty fire dat you made just for me."

The way she leaned her head caused her eyelashes to brush over his jawline. His insides tightened at the lightness of the touch, but then she moved and the feel was gone. Yearning for something he didn't know, he pulled Isabel onto his lap and embraced her hard, as if that undying love of hers might slip away otherwise.

"I'll make ya a bigger fire on the beach," his voice whispered hoarsely.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	74. Creston: The Cloned Bear

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **74\. Creston: The Cloned Bear**

This was so much better than the beach! Creed breathed in and felt rejuvenated by the multitude of scents of the nearly pristine northern forest.

He wasn't about to say he hadn't enjoyed working on the California property: checking the fences were as solid as he wanted, organising the rocky slope before planning the shape of the slides which would be custom-made for the next summer… He had even kind of enjoyed decorating the house. In terms of furniture, he meant, not the trinkets and little details. He couldn't care about that.

And the pocket beach, of course! Isabel had loved it and had insisted in spending a couple of hours lying on the sand every day. His Lil' Devil hadn't been swoon over by it, though. She had said the waves were bad and noisy, and had taken nearly an entire week to get used to the sand.

"I've told you," Isabel had grumbled. "She needs to be exposed to as many things as possible as soon as possible."

And that had meant building sand castles. The girl had never been fond of modeling clay, but the wet sand had convinced her it was fun to make constructions. Creed had the feeling she might want to do the same with mud, once they went back home.

There was running drinking water in the little cove, but the small tropical beach hut Isabel had wanted had been scrapped. Now it was to be a wooden cabin imitating the typical ones in a specific Portuguese coastal area. It was basically one of those Californian beach cabins for surfers without the stilts and painted with bright colours. Whatever. They had spent the last week making drawings and plans, some of which had been silly and fanciful, but hadn't made any definite decisions.

"We must have something to keep ourselves busy next year," she'd said.

One thing he disliked about the seaside was the monotony of the scents. The smell of the ocean drowned everything else, and he'd often walked along the wooded cliffs around the house just to try and clean his nose from it.

But the woods!

"Pappa, dee'!"

He crouched next to his Lil' Devil and pointed at the prints.

"Moose," he said. "Look, these are what deer prints look like. See? Deer, moose."

"Dee', moo'."

Then she jumped and ran off along the path. Isabel was smiling down at him and he grabbed her hand as he got up. It was an irregular path and he didn't want her to lose her balance or put her foot wrong or something. Ahead of them, the girl tripped on a group of raised roots and tumbled face first. Isabel breathed in sharply but said nothing. She whimpered then sat on the ground, looking at them with an almost teary pout.

"She hurt herself," Isabel whispered in Portuguese, but Creed answered with a low 'sh'.

"What made ya trip?" he asked the child. "Was it a tree root?"

She nodded, pout still on, and sniffed a little. As they reached her side, Creed crouched and lifted her up.

"Ya gotta stand up after ya fall, Lil' Devil. Ya ain't a baby no more; ya can get up by yerself, can't ya?"

She nodded again, whimpering 'no baby', but the pout was still deep.

"Where does it hurt?"

She showed her hands. She had fallen hard on them, it seemed, and there were tiny pebbles imprinted on her skin. Creed rubbed them off.

"There. Now all 'em pebbles are gone. Anythin' else?"

She touched a knee. It had gotten scrapped in the fall. In fact, when Creed sniffed, there was a faint scent of blood, yet there wasn't a single cut on her skin.

"Well, rub off the dirt the way I did ta yer hands," he told her. "It's you who's bein' hurt by the dirt, so it's you who gets rid of it. There! That's Pappa's strong Lil' Devil! You don't let nuthin' hurt ya, do ya? 'Course ya don't!"

But as they resumed their path, she walked quietly by their side instead of running off ahead. It was a short lived rarity, though. A butterfly flew by and she chased it immediately.

* * *

With all the walking his baby girl had done on their first day of hiking, she had almost fallen asleep during dinner. Creed took her a little bit off into the woods so she could go to the improvised potty then took her to the tent expecting to finally have some time for himself as Isabel did the cleaning up. The plan was to take off for a spin, but when he got out of the tent he frowned. Isabel had just collected a bit of ash and then put it in the pot with some of the water she'd boiled at the beginning of the cooking.

"Whatch'ya doin'? Another one of yer crappy teas?"

"You'll see," she said.

He crouched next to her, suspicious. It was their first nigh camping and it had taken a long time to set everything. especially because Victoria had wanted to help and had asked question on top of question. Setting up camp with a toddler was really not fast, but it was the best way for the girl to learn how to do it, so he was not complaining. They'd simply have to stop walking earlier the next day. In the meantime, it had become very obvious that family camping was not a straightforward affair. He was used to going out with almost nothing, and most meals didn't require any cooking gear. Actually, no meal required cooking gear when he went hiking alone. It didn't require bringing along any food either.

Travelling with a toddler, though, was different. Isabel had brought a ton of cereal bars as well as dried berries and nuts for the girl. Well, maybe not a ton. The way the girl wolfed down those things, they'd be gone before the trip was half-way. Isabel had also bought a ton of dehydrated soups and stews and… a whole lot of shit. It was the only proper word for it, according to Creed, even though he'd only tried two of the flavours, so far. The only reason his Lil' Devil ate any of it was because she was damned hungry from walking so much. Well, that and the berries Isabel had told her to pick on their way. Those berries had really been the only thing that had helped Creed swallow the stews. Isabel had done her best to be minimalist in terms of gear, so she'd only brought along a cooking pot to boil water and three bowls with the required spoons and forks. Unfortunately, she also used the pot to make these shitty teas with plants she picked up.

Whatever the woman was doing, though, it was no tea. The ashes and the water had become a grey paste and she spread it onto the bowls they'd used. Then she looked up with a cocky grin.

"Ashes mixed with grease of food work like soap. I let it rest a little, then I scrub it off, rinse with the boiled water, and that's it! I'll pour the water over the fire to put it out then I'll go to bed. Whistle when you come back so I don't think I've got a bear trying to break into the tent, ok?"

He laughed and nodded.

And regretted the lone round five minutes later.

It wasn't that he hadn't enjoyed the slow hike with Isabel and his baby girl, but he had missed being completely alone in the wilderness. He had especially missed the silence. Isabel didn't know how to walk silently, and the child was constantly calling out over her little discoveries and wonders. Going out on his own at night was supposed to give him that peace and quiet, and yet he still didn't enjoy it.

It was too… quiet. Lonely.

When he came back, Isabel was about to pour the water over the fire, but he told her not to. Instead, he got her sleeping pads and sleeping bag, so she could wrap up and feel warm, and they both lay down on the ground looking at the sky.

Thin patches of clouds sailed lazily over the stars while the dying fire crackled and Isabel's soft breathing warmed his neck. This was so much better!

* * *

"But did they find out who did it?"

Isabel shook her head and explained that whoever had killed the tourist had got into a car and left immediately. No one had seen anything!

"Amber told me that the Mounties know what type of tyres the vehicle used, but there's thousands of cars that use that type of tyre! Some people were afraid the killer might attack other lonely hikers, but I think the killer probably knew her."

"Or it was a hitman."

He sure had done similar jobs, though he usually made it look like a wild animal had mangled the body.

"Why didn't ya tell me at the time?"

"Because," she grumbled pointedly, "you'd have said I was in danger and would have hurried back. I was perfectly fine! I took extra precautions just in case, but… seriously! I didn't even have a single nightmare. You know I always get nightmares when I don't think we're safe."

Yeah, she had had a couple on their drive to California, when they'd spent the night on a roadside motel and he had went out for a drink. He'd only been away for two hours, since he'd taken the chance to check out the area, and she'd woken up sick to her stomach twice. They had come to steal her daughter away, she'd cried in his arms. She'd rather dream they were torturing her than dream that someone was going to hurt her baby girl.

"Next time, tell me," he growled, rightfully pissed. "Don't ya ever hold back information from me!"

"Then promise you don't freak out unless it's a serious safety breach. It is very annoying when I say 'oh, someone graffitied the picnic tables in Canyon Park', and you tell me to lock myself in the house till you've had the chance to locate the little punk! I trust your ability to keep us safe, but there's no need to overreact! I mean, Don had every reason to get as angry as he was when you said he was too ineffective to be able to find the graffitiing vandals on his own!"

That had been before they'd come hiking. The Foyle brothers and cousins and the whole pack of the dumb kids had gone on a graffitiing spree. The Mounties had no clues and he'd told Don who was doing it, but the guy had gotten ruffled and had refused to act on his intel.

"I wasn't talkin' 'bout him; I was talkin' 'bout the Mounties! He's just too stupid ta make the distinction."

"He _is_ a Mountie. Why don't you just tell him you were worried about me and got a little overzealous? And, next time, offer your help instead of stuffing it down his throat. People resent being forced to accept someone's help, Victor. Even if they need it. Put yourself in his shoes!"

Creed growled. What did he care if the dumb asshole was sulking and refused to as much as be in the Track Bar when Creed was there? It wasn't as if Creed wanted him around anyway! And the worst thing was that he still had to fix it so the Mountie wasn't posted elsewhere. Ungrateful ass!

"Why don't _you_ put yourself in _my_ shoes? D'ya know how annoyin' it is ta be talkin' ta you in English and always gettin' an answer in Portuguese?"

That had silenced her for good.

Creed had ended up missing the SAR fund raising, but Isabel had worked tirelessly on it to make up for his absence. It had annoyed him, though. Especially because Colin Ellis had clearly shown his disappointment. Not that he'd said anything outside 'sure, I understand: a guy can't always put his job aside or he'll end up getting fired', but it had gnawed at him.

He was working himself up in the respect of those people, everyone seeing Kredall as reliable and, hell, even wanted! And then he'd shot himself in the foot by letting them all down when they needed folks to get together for the cause. He didn't really care about the whole thing, but… It was like stalking a deer for hours and then carelessly scare it away.

Isabel had noticed he was bummed over their phone conversations, and he'd stupidly admitted the reason. She had the brains of the devil, that's for sure! Acting out on her suggestion, he'd told Colin that he'd rounded up a few of his work colleagues and pressed them into making donations, then had sent a hefty sum. Well, not that hefty – Isabel had quickly vetoed the original number he'd thought of. Too much money is going to turn heads and get people talking. Subtlety was the name of the game.

"I mean, there's more than one way ta skin a cat," he'd told Colin under Isabel's direction, "and unless ya got a rule sayin' only locals can donate…"

That little gesture had restored him to his high standing within the group. Seriously: Isabel was the most cunning person he knew, and she directed all that skill into making everyone appreciate their presence, while ostensibly making the community a better place to live in. And she believed in it, too, in making the place better and the people happier. For as long as it helped to cement his family's standing in the community, he'd let her have her way without a but.

"Wolves?" Isabel asked suddenly, holding her breath as she stopped.

He'd been hearing their howls for quite some time now but simply shrugged.

"They ain't gonna 'cause us no trouble." Then he had an idea: "Can ya tell how far away they are. Lil' Devil, come back here!"

The girl, who had been ready to stray from the narrow path, stopped and ran back.

"What can ya hear?"

"Big bad oof!" She laughed. "Eat g'amma an' piggies!"

Isabel said she had no idea of the distance and he told her to take off the baby carrier. In order for them to travel as light as possible, Creed had ended up taking most of the gear in his backpack, while Isabel got the baby carrier. Most of the day it was empty, anyway, so she didn't have to get tired. Not that he thought she couldn't handle a backpack, she'd shown him years before she was more than able, but he saw no need to tire her out. This was supposed to be a fun outing, after all.

"Listen carefully, the two of you. How many wolves can ya hear?"

"Five," Isabel declared, their baby girl repeating that number with a serious frown. "De howls have different… tons. How you say dat in English?"

He didn't answer her but agreed it was five animals.

"They are talking, Lil' Devil. They're tellin' each other where they are and if we join the conversation, they'll know where we are. That way, we know how to avoid dropping in on them, and they'll know how to avoid dropping in on us."

"Or dey know where lunch is," Isabel mumbled somberly.

"Wolves only attack people if they're hungry or if they're sick, Nesi! Those wolves sound perfectly healthy."

Then he put his head back and let out a deep howl. His Lil' Devil laughed and produced a ridicuolous attempt at a howl that had him laughing. But then he coached her on how to put her head back in the right way to let the sound vibrate effortlessly through the throat. He explained how the sound is produced not in the throat but inside her body.

"Breathe in deeply," he explained. "Now gently pressure the muscles so the air is pushed out."

He looked at Isabel.

"You too."

She laughed and shook her head, but he was serious.

"They'll be able ta tell it's a travelling group. That's important. We're basically tellin' 'em that there's a group o' three over here an' they better not come an' mess with us. If they were ta hear only a child, they might come lookin' fer it and actually protect it the way they might protect a lost wolf cub simply 'cause the kid was speakin' in their language, sort of. Unless they were hungry, 'course. It might not go so well fer the kid in that case."

He once more exemplified, then Isabel let out a deep almost melodious howl that seemed to stretch on and on. It gave him unexpected goosebumps, the way her voice expanded from a low note to a slightly higher tone, in a swift flexible arch. It was like a wave of sound that vibrated through his whole being and felt both warm and full, if that made any sense.

"That's a pretty howl ya got," he chuckled, trying to shake the stupid thrill from his body.

"Is a lyrical howl," she tossed her hair theatrically. "Is more classy!"

In the distance, the wolves answered with renewed howls.

* * *

The fifth morning of the hike dawned particularly cold. Actually, the fourth day had already set particularly cold. Isabel had snuggled in Victor's arms through the night, feeling a bit guilty that he had ended up sleeping outside his sleeping bag, using it only as a blanket spread over the two of them. Isabel had worried about Lilia, but the girl had actually slid out of the sleeping bag during the night, the same way she'd been doing in the previous nights.

"That sleeping bag is too warm fer her," Victor had said during the first night.

The girl also didn't care about sleeping directly on the ground, whereas Isabel had tried from day one to pretend she was comfortable. Remembering her first camping experience back when she was still Irbis, she had bought herself two sleeping pads to put under the sleeping bag. Not only did they soften the ground, but they also helped to keep away any cold seeping up. On the third night out in the woods, for some reason Isabel couldn't tell, Victor had given her his pad, claiming that not only he didn't need it, it ruined part of the experience of sleeping outside. While she had welcomed the extra padding, which had made sleeping truly comfortable, she still wasn't sure if he had meant it or if he had noticed she had trouble finding a comfortable position to sleep.

On that fifth morning, she woke up with a cold air-draft when Victor left the tent. Next year, they'd come hiking in August, she told herself. She had never gone so high up north in Canada and it made a difference in the climate. She was definitely used to gentler September temperatures in Creston. Oh, wait! Creston had some of the warmest weather in the entire country! She should have remembered that when she'd agreed to set the date of the hike for September. But no! All she'd been thinking about was that September had a greater variety of plants she could use to show off.

Trying to warm herself up, she got up and started hurrying about. She quickly collected a few birch twigs from a nearby tree – ok, maybe not so nearby – and made herself some tea to accompany breakfast. Victor had once more grimaced at her concoctions, as he called her teas, but Lilia had liked this particular one. The previous night, she had added to their re-hydrated dinner a bit of peppergrass seeds, since she'd miraculously come across a patch of those little plants. The seeds gave off a subtle peppery taste and she'd been very happy with the result. Not that Victor had made any comments beyond grumbling at all the time she'd spent collecting the seeds.

Back on their second camp, Isabel had managed to show off her survivalist abilities by washing the T-shirts they'd used on those first two days, once more using ashes, but that had only happened because it had been sunny and Victor hadn't minded lazying about with Lilia for a few hours. Unfortunately, the third day had brought cloudiness and even a bit of drizzling, so laundry was now off the plans for the rest of the trip. Not that Victor had seen any use to it! He must enjoy wearing the same clothes over and over again.

Soon, the camp was wrapped up and they were on their way.

Lilia was a bit sleepy, and didn't feel like walking very fast so she'd soon ended up asking to sit in the carrier, on Isabel's back. She rarely did that. She enjoyed running about too much to settle for a boring sitting experience where she was basically tied away from all the fun.

Walking silently throught the forest with Victor gave Isabel a sense of peace and happiness that was different from being at home. She was aware being out here meant far more for the man than it did for her, but every now and then he'd take her hand as if he truly enjoyed her presence and that… oh, that was worth all the cold, and the rough sleeping ground of the first nights, and even his dismissiveness over her freshly acquired herbal knowledge.

"St'eam!" Lilia said suddenly from the carrier, her feet kicking excitedly.

Isabel couldn't hear any water, but Victor laughed and said that yes, there was a stream up ahead. Did she want to wet her feet? Another five seconds and she was trying to climb out of the carrier.

"Off ya go," Victor set her down.

The stream cascaded down a gentle hill and they stopped for an hour for the girl to play a bit. Isabel took the chance to practice her tracking skills, trying to determine how long ago had what animal visited a muddy area of the margin, and Victor cheerfully divided his attention between the two of them. And when Isabel said cheerfully, she meant a wide smile and lots of laughing, she meant his hands groping her ass and his fangs playing on her earlobes and neck, she meant him roaring playfully in short lunges at Lilia then throwing her up in the air.

That one hour flew swiftly by and then off they went again. The path veered slowly away from the stream, but it was still visible in between the tree trunks. Soon, the water wasn't visible anymore, but its noise still filled the air.

And then Victor froze in the path. For a moment, Isabel thought he was scared. There was something in the way he sniffed the air urgently, the way his body moved, the way his eyes turned to her. She could have sworn he was thinking 'where do I lock them up for safety'. She held her breath for the two seconds of his reaction, then Victor grabbed her arm and pulled her as he reached for Lilia, who had stopped to look curiously at something to the right of the path.

"Vict…"

"Sh! Not a sound," he hissed, his voice thick with fear. Definite fear.

It frightened her more than she thought possible. What could possibly scare Victor in these woods?

He led her to the left, towards the stream, and Isabel struggled to accompany him. Then she saw Lilia's head peeking over his shoulder. Her face was inexpressive, eyes wide and lips tight. It was the expression of when she was scared and played dead.

Isabel's arm was burning as Victor pulled her on, as she tripped on puffs of grass and twigs sprouting out of the ground and which he seemed to magically avoid. Tree branches and needles scratched her exposed skin and she was moving with the constant vertigo of being mid-fall, except that Victor kept her going forward. Until her feet got irremediably stuck in something and refused to move on. It almost felt as if her arm was about to be pulled out of the socket and she let out a yelp, which stopped Victor immediately.

Behind them, there was a ground-shattering roar.

"Do not move," Victor hissed, when Isabel looked back and saw a gigantic bear. "Do _not_ move."

Move? She wasn't even breathing!

Slowly, Victor put Lilia in her arms. The child's breath was coming out in short shallow puffs, testifying how terrified she felt in her shivering immobility.

"Stay down," he said, "and whatever ya do, do not move an' do not make a sound."

She nodded.

Lying on the ground, she embraced the child and half-covered her with her own body. Through her perifereal vision, she was aware of Victor moving silently through all those branches and twigs. How on earth did he do that? He was barefoot, she noticed when he sprinted sideways. Soon, she couldn't see him anymore. A shot reverberated in the air and Isabel felt her baby's body shake against her chest.

"Sh," she whispered in Portuguese. "It's ok. Pappa will make sure we're ok."

More shots and roars. That must be Victor and the bear. Lilia whimpered below Isabel, and she made sure her body weight was not pressing the child against the ground.

Her heart and her breathing sounded incredibly loud to her ears, even as the shots, roars and now screams exploded behind her. Isabel looked ahead. Victor's shoes and socks were about a metre ahead of her, his large backpack to their left. Beyond them, she could distinguish the current of the stream and she was suddenly aware of the sound of rushing water.

Behind her, there were a few last shots, then a long roar that choked itself into nothingness.

Silence.

Besides the rushing waters and her heart, of course. Nothing but silence. Where was Victor?

Lilia whimpered again, and Isabel made up her mind. Slowly, she looked back. Nothing. The land tilted slightly downwards from the path to the stream and, from her low position, she could see nothing beyond the top of the bear, lying on the ground. Where _was_ Victor?

Holding her daughter tight against her chest, Isabel pulled herself to her knees. Then she freed herself from the stupid little branches that had captured her feet and stood up. Now she could see more clearly. There were bodies all over the trail.

Shivering, she started getting closer, her eyes flying left and right, constantly searching the area for movement.

Soldiers. There were dead soldiers on the ground. At least she thought they were soldiers, since they were dressed as the military. It occurred to her that if these men were considered missing, more would come looking for them. Missing? If they were considered late… or if someone was expecting them to communicate and got nothing but silence. In a few minutes, the place could be swarmed with soldiers!

Victor! He was lying in a pool of blood and, when she got to his side, she was ghastly aware that all the blood was his. His entire body was covered in it. She could see the holes of the bullets, and she could see where the claws of that giant bear had ripped into his body. God, she could see long areas of bone on several points of his left arm and his skull too!

"Victor," she called softly.

She wasn't upset that he didn't respond, as he looked half mangled to death. He was in no condition to talk, much less hear her. With a surprisingly steady hand, she searched for a pulse on his neck and was relieved to find one. She had no idea how strong or weak it was, though.

"Next time the SAR has a first aid course," she told him, "I'm doing it."

She looked around. If the colleagues of those soldiers showed up… They couldn't be here.

Isabel stood up and then ran towards the spot where Victor's backpack and shoes were. She took them a bit further on and got rid of the baby carrier that was still on her back, making sure they were hidden. Lilia whimpering in her arms, she rushed back to the path.

"Ok, Lilia," She set the girl down and she whimpered, wanting to get back to her Mamma's lap. "Mamma needs your help, my love. Pappa needs your help. You want to help Pappa, don't you? Yes, yes, you do. You're going to help Pappa."

Still whimpering, her pout shivering, the child nodded. Then looked at the enormous bulk of the dead bear and her whole little body quivered.

"The bear is dead, my love. It can't hurt you, it can't hurt anyone. It's asleep and he won't wake up."

"Bea' is'eep," she whispered, frightened.

Isabel kissed her forehead, insisting the bear wasn't going to wake up, that her Pappa had made it go to sleep forever.

Then Isabel took a deep breath and got a hold of Victor's arm, pulling his torso onto her back. Not good enough. On her knees, she moved back under him until his head was hanging over hers. His bulk had to be as balanced as possible. With a 'hup', she got up and took a few steps forward.

"Walk alongside Mamma, Lilia," she gasped breathlessly with the effort. "Come, my love, come on."

Her hegs buckled under the tremendous weight and she landed on her hands and knees.

"You are going on a diet, Victor Creed," she hissed almost to herself. "God, you're going on a fucking diet!"

Hup and on she went a bit longer before she fell again. This wouldn't do. They were too close to the path. But she still heaved him up, again and again. Finally, her legs refused to pull both of them up. She couldn't look back to gauge how far she had managed to go, but the stream was still not visible, so she couldn't stop there. She had to take him nearer to the stream, where they could hide, and then she had to come back and make sure she hadn't left a visible trail. There was no time!

The desperation brought tears to her eyes but not enough strength to her legs. Well, if she couldn't get up… she started moving onward on all fours.

"Stay next to Mamma," she gasped to Lilia.

She didn't have to worry: the girl was holding on to her Pappa's limp arm.

When she finally reached her objective, her entire body was on fire. She let him slide off her gently and once more called his name. No reaction. There was still a pulse, though. She let him on his back and backtracked. Lilia started crying when Isabel headed out, so she put on the baby carrier over her blood soaked clothes and took the child with her.

There was blood everywhere, dear God!

First, she dragged a dead soldier to the spot where Victor had been in an attempt to disguise the pool of blood. She wasted some time trying to make it look as if the guy had dragged himself there, but she thought it was worth it. She hesitated a bit, but ended up stealing one of their rifles. Then she disguised her tracks as best she could. Fortunately, the ground wasn't very soft, so it didn't get imprinted easily. There was blood, though. What to do? She dragged another body till it was over the area that needed covering.

Now, it just took disguising the path to the stream. She tried to revive the flattened puffs of grass – if it could be called grass – and put dirt over blood spots. She was still not happy, though. Looking up, she noticed the yellowing leaves. There were quite a few on the ground already. That was it! She put her baby girl back on the ground and got rid of the carrier, then she took off her shoes.

"Lilia, my love, wait here by the carrier, ok? Look at Mamma. You'll want to do this in two years, so take a good look and you'll know how to do it right."

Good Lady, she hadn't climbed a tree in years! She pulled herself up as best she could in order to get close enough to the branches and shake them. Then she slithered over the branches to rub leaves off. It worked, though not as well as she'd hoped. For the second tree, she managed to take a stick with her which she used to hit the branches and cause a greater number of leaves to fall.

Isabel had no idea how long it had taken her to cover the path, but it was too long. Lilia had helpfully carried her hiking boots, hugging them as if they were a teddy bear. Now, all it took was for Victor to have enough time to recover.

He was still unresponsive, though. What was she going to do! First things first. She got rid of her bloodied clothes – from T-shirt to pants – and put on clean ones. Wondering if the scent of the bloodied clothes could attract wolves, among other predators, she slid down to the stream and washed her clothes as well as possible using nothing but the freezing water. Then she grabbed her adamantium dagger and freed Victor's body from his ripped clothes, leaving him with nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. Adamantium blades were so useful! You hardly had to exert any strength.

Then she ripped a clean T-shirt – her last one – and soaked it in the cold stream so she could wash his body from all the blood. Watching intently, Lilia picked up some leaves off the ground and started helping. Bless her little heart!

"Here, my love, use this. Yes. Now we'll help Pappa get better together, won't we?"

Most of the wounds and bullet holes were already scabbing, which was good: it meant he wouldn't bleed to death. But she was worried about the arm: almost half of it was completely fleshless! The skull wound, on the other hand, seemed to be closing fast. What had he said when he'd broken his leg on a job? The more damage, the longer it took, and that meant taking it slow. That could mean he'd be sleeping until most wounds were handled.

Isabel got his sleeping bag and covered him with it, then she got her daughter and lay beside him, equally rolled up in her sleeping bag. Thankfully, she'd bought them with camouflage patterns.

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


	75. Creston: The Return

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters except my characters. Which are quite a few this time around. Let's try it this way: I don't own any Marvel characters that happen to show up in the upcoming chapters and which I'm sure you'll recognise without any need to name long lists.

* * *

 **75\. Creston: The Return**

Creed's eyes snapped open when the shot went off, claws out and sinking into… huh? His sleepin' bag? Victoria. She was lying very still next to him, her wide brown eyes shining in the dark with a golden glow. What… The last thing he remembered was… was killing a bunch of hunters. No. No, he'd killed them first, then he'd finished off the bear. That was it. And the animal had almost ripped his arm off before dying. Yeah. And then he'd blacked out, probably from blood loss and damage of important internal organs. He did have a vague recollection of the assholes trying to turn him into a human sieve.

He breathed out and closed his eyes. He wasn't fully awake yet, he decided, that was why his senses weren't spiking into high alert. Nevertheless, that was something that didn't really add up: he felt too relaxed and safe. When he blacked out due to body damage, he usually came to before his body had had time to fully recover and with all his senses searching for signs of danger.

Forcing himself to get out of that unnatural relaxation, he sat up and felt jabbing pain in some parts of his abdomen. There must still be some bullets stuck inside him. Besides the pain, the arm which the bear had chewed on was stiff and didn't respond well. He looked at it and grimaced. Part of his biceps and triceps muscles hadn't regrown yet. That will keep an arm from responding, for sure. Then he looked carefully around him.

It was night and there was a clumsy attempt at a lean-to over his head. Victoria was tucked inside her sleeping bag, still gazing intently at him, and there was a half-baked mattress of green leaves under him. It barely kept the ground's cold humidity from his body, but it was better than nothing. Outside, he could hear a stream rushing by but he couldn't smell a fire anywhere. He could smell Isabel, though, as well as the stench of old blood and death, not far off.

He heard the woman step around on the other side of the shelter. It finally dawned on him that she had been the one setting up the thing. The interior smelled like her and he realised that it was because of her scent his senses weren't in alert. His instinct had associated it to safety. She walked slowly to the right, paused, then walked slowly to the left, paused. She was patrolling. The idea raised his heartbeat, but he couldn't tell why since he still felt safe. Which was stupid! Where were they exactly?

"That's right," he heard her sigh softly. "Keep away."

He was going to get out when her steps came closer and she leaned in.

"Oh, you're awake," she smiled, relief choking her voice, and he frowned. "How are you feeling, my love?"

She crouched ahead of him and lay a hand on his foot. His frown deepened. Why did her voice and her touch cause a wave of… he didn't know what to call it. It was almost like nausea only it wasn't unpleasant.

"What was that shot?" He grumbled, annoyed at that pressure inside him.

"Oh, I took a rifle from one of the soldiers in case it was necessary, and I'm glad I did. Those wolves we howled at? At least I think they're the same wolves. They are eating the bear. The moon is out and gives a little light, enough for me to see their eyes glowing. A couple of them started coming closer so I shot at them and they took off. I haven't seen their eyes anymore."

She took a step back to once more look around. That pressure was still inside him and he breathed out, trying to get rid of it.

"I can't see them. Anyway, how are you feeling? Hungry? You need energy to finish healing, right? I didn't want to start a fire because it might attract the soldiers, but we still have a few energy bars. Shall I get them for you?"

He shook his head in a silent negative.

"I need protein," he got up and his baby girl yelped out a suddenly scared 'no'.

"Sh, my love, it's ok. Come here to Mamma."

But she still clung to him, even as Isabel picked her up.

"She was terrified with the whole situation," Isabel explained as he realised he was pretty much naked. "Oh, yes! Your clothes were ripped to shreds and covered in blood. So I finished ripping them off you, washed some of the blood in the stream, then buried them. I didn't want to risk the smell attracting predators, you see? Here, have some clean ones."

She got a shirt from the backpack and he picked it up without thinking but didn't put it on. His baby girl's hand was still clinging to his arm.

"I also tried to hide our tracks in case more soldiers showed up. I even climbed up the trees and shook the branches to make fresh leaves fall over any signs and make it look as if no one had walked over this area." She laughed nervously and handed him a pair of jeans. "I'm not sure I was very successful so I'm really glad no one showed up. I mean, you're incredibly heavy, love! There were times I thought I was going to sink into the earth under your weight. I'm sure anyone would have been able to see where I had stepped while carrying you here. And let's not forget you were still bleeding a lot at that time. I did my best to put rocks and dirt over the drops of blood, but I'm not sure it looks natural, so… uh…Victor? Is everything ok? You're so silent."

He shook his head. Her words were echoeing in his brain. She had carried him away from the trail. She had gotten rid of the blood to avoid predators and had been patrolling the make-shift shelter to keep wolves at bay. She'd shaken trees to get leaves over any tracks! Because of the soldiers… Wait, what soldiers?

"Who are these soldiers ya're talkin' about?"

"Uh… The men you killed alongside the bear? They're dressed like they're in the military. They even have those metal tags you see in the movies."

He frowned. He'd taken them for hunters because they'd been carrying rifles instead of military weaponry and because of their hunting clothes. Sure, it was camouflage, but hunters often wear the same type of camouflage as the military.

"I'm gonna take a look an' make sure 'em wolves really are keepin' away. An' ferget those energy bars! They don't do shit fer my healin'. It's meat, I need, not that crap."

"Oh," she sounded disappointed, kind of. "Do you want to take the rifle? Because of the wolves and seeing as you aren't fully recovered, you might want to… you know, avoid getting too close to their fangs."

He once more shook his head, said he didn't need it. The wolves knew better than to get too close, even if his left arm was pretty much useless, right now. He really needed some proper food to get his body mending itself faster.

"How long was I out?"

"Uh…" She looked at the watch. "It's now shortly after eleven, so… about thirteen hours."

That was a lot. But hey, too much blood loss had always hindered his healing and, since his instincts had considered him safe in the woman's silly shelter, there had been nothing forcing him to wake up before time. Not to mention he'd skipped lunch. When the bear had crashed through the trail, he had been thinking about finding a spot for eating. He had just wanted to make a couple of miles after that hour spent at the stream.

He stretched his body, the abdomen still complaining sharply at two independent spots. That'd go away soon. As he finished, he put a hand on the tree branches that were perched against two tree trunks, amazingly firm despite looking so precarious. He snorted at the amateurish work then headed to the trail.

"Pappa," his baby girl whined immediately. Why was she scared?

"Sh, my love. Pappa is going to eat and then he'll be right back. Don't worry: the bear cannot hurt anyone."

He went back and picked up the child, letting her snuggle against his neck. Then he nuzzled her neck, making her giggle, and brushed his lips over her forehead. When he handed her back to her mother and headed out, though, she still started crying. It was ok. He'd be back in no time and she'd see everything was fine.

The clouds cleared the moon and the path became much clearer to his eyes. Taking the opportunity, he crouched and checked the ground. His dried blood was easy to smell and, even in the dark, he could see the tracks the woman had made. He snickered at the freshly dropped leaves and shook his head at the woman's idea. There were quite a few on some spots and an amateur might have been tricked by them. He backtracked a bit. She'd been on her hands and knees at this point. That pressure inside him grew stronger again and he still couldn't tell what it was.

Shaking his head, he focused on the dead bodies ahead. The wolves were back, but there was enough food to go around and a few growls were enough to convince them to stay away.

Creed focused on the bear. It was no bear he had ever seen. In fact, he was pretty sure it was no bear anyone had ever seen. He studied its head when the moon showed up in between the clouds again. He'd look those features up. Then he started eating.

Once he felt full, he turned his attention to the men. Isabel was right: they were indeed soldiers. They were dressed for a hunt, though, which meant the bear had something to do with the military. An experiment gone rogue? Probably. They might have been on a multiple day hunt, which explained why nobody had come looking for them during the day. But surely they'd have to contact their superiors at night, in the very least. If there were no contacts, a new group would be dispatched to locate the missing ones. Guess Isabel had been right to fear the arrival of a new batch of soldiers after all.

Feeling the flesh in his left arm pulling, he ignored the need to scratch it and hurried onwards. Isabel was holding the girl, trying to hush her muffled crying. He could barely see her figure amidst the trees when the clouds covered the moon. But then the clouds left and she almost shone, next to the branches leaning against the tree trunks.

Creed stopped when the obvious hit him: the woman had no experience outside. None whatsoever. Sure, he had taught her to follow tracks, but… she'd just made a shelter all by herself, she'd… she'd carried him on her back for over 200 feet. He weighed 275 pounds and she was a slip of a frail! And then she'd gone and done her level best to hide their tracks, even if the result was next to pitiful.

That weird wave pressured his insides again. Damned if it didn't make him think of nausea, even if it wasn't unpleasant. It grew inside and welled up to his throat like a knot. He shook his head. Probably a side effect from the hunger followed by a cold, raw meal.

He kept going. They were deep in the moonless dark by the time he got to the little shelter.

"Ya're right," he said a bit hoarsely. "They're wi'the military. It's likely they'll send people lookin' fer 'em tomorrow so we gotta get movin' now."

She nodded and asked if she should start tearing the shelter apart, disguise every sign of their presence.

"I'll take care o' that, don't worry. I just need ta wash off the blood o' my meal an' put some clothes on."

"I can do it," her voice was suddenly hard and he couldn't tell why, nor why she'd switched to English all of a sudden. "I'm not incapable."

What? He smelled tears then and he was at a loss.

"When the fuck did I say ya're incapable?!"

But the tears only intensified and her answer was getting Victoria on one arm and using the other to start throwing the branches off their perches. He almost grabbed her and finished the conversation, but they didn't have time to mess around, so he went down to the stream and thoroughly washed himself. The triceps was almost finished regenerating, but the biceps would take a few more hours. It meant his left arm was still mostly useless. Incapable! What had given her that idea?

He put on the clothes without drying himself off – there was no need, really – then helped the woman finish scattering things about. Any tracker worth his salt would see there had been people there during the night, and that one of them had been part of the fight against the bear. The wolves would eat some of the evidence, but still… He just hoped that the new team only cared about locating the missing men and the bear. If they were too busy retrieving the bodies, they wouldn't look for evidence of witnesses.

Creed went back and placed the rifle Isabel had used back in the scene. Missing material would surely have them searching the area, after all. Then he led Isabel through the forest. His plan was now to reach a section of a different trail ahead which meant a bit of cross-country. Naturally, he had to go ahead, clearing the way for the woman and making sure they were heading the right way, but every now and then he backtracked to try and disguise the more obvious signs of their passage.

Isabel's tears nagged him silently for way too long. He still couldn't understand what had caused that reaction! Incapable? After all she'd done while he was out? She was insane!

* * *

Their Lil' Devil had fallen asleep by the time Creed decided to stop in a clearing. They had been walking for four hours straight and he supposed they'd made about eight miles in that time. It was a very good rhythm and only possible due to the moonlight, but Isabel was tired and getting progressively slower, not to mention tripping more often.

He put down his backpack and got a couple of energy bars.

"Eat somethin' while I check the map."

Isabel knelt on the ground and balanced the girl in one arm while opening the packet. She had explained how the carrier had become covered in blood and how she'd washed it, but the straps and the padding hadn't dried well and she didn't want the child strapped to something cold and humid for hours. It had made sense but, as he put the map away, it suddenly occurred to him that carrying a 26 pound child for hours in her arms had to be exhausting.

He'd take her the rest of the way, he decided. He'd have to be more careful in the way he travelled through the more thickly wooded patches, but his left arm was much better. The muscles had finished regrowing and there was only a bit of scarred skin that would soon be gone.

"We're almost there," he told her. "By dawn, we should reach that trail I was tellin' ya about. We'll have ta walk cross-country again eventually, but we should be well clear from the bear spot."

She nodded while wolfing down the energy bar and once more balanced Lilia on her arm to open the second packet.

"Here, I'll take her the rest o' the way."

Her reaction was instinctive, and Creed's equally so: she forgot the energy bar to put a protective hand over the child and he aborted the movement to get her.

"I can carry her just fine," Isabel hissed.

There was a hurt undertone that he once more failed to understand the reason for.

"She's heavy and ya've been carryin' her fer hours," he growled, the instinct to yield to the mother already gone. "Ya gotta be tired!"

A whiff of fresh tears baffled him. What the hell!

"If I could carry _you_ , I can carry _her_."

And she got up, started walking in the general direction of before, telling him to show the way. Creed had had enough of the nonsense, though.

"Don't ya fuckin' turn yer back on me, woman!" He grabbed her by an arm to get her attention. "What the hell's wrong with ya? First it was that 'I ain't incapable' drivel an' now this? Ya're gettin' stupid all of a sudden, huh?"

There, tears! But at least she looked angry, not ready to burst out sobbing.

"I did everything I could to keep you safe while you were unconscious, Victor. I did everything I could think of to make sure _we_ were safe, as hidden and out of the way as possible. And what is the first thing you do when you wake up? You ignore everything I say! I'm not asking you to admit you appreciate having to be dependent on someone, I'm not even asking you to appreaciate it at all. But laughing at the only type of shelter I could improvise? Shaking your head at my efforts to hide the track? Telling me you don't need me to undo the shelter, that you'd rather do it all by yourself? You really think that little of my capabilities?!"

Why the hell did she have to blow stuff out of proportion?

"I didn't laugh…"

"You think I'm so deaf I couldn't hear you sneering when you tested the strength of the shelter?"

Ok, fine, he growled at himself. He had sneered at its amateurishness, but he hadn't laughed at her hard work.

"We don't have time for this," she said in an icy calm tone. "We have to walk as far as we can before dawn. Can you please show the way?"

Creed took a deep growled breath.

"Look, woman, I…"

"For the love of God, Victor! I can't walk as fast as you can, especially not at night. Can we continue this conversation after dawn, when we're safely away from all this?"

Snarling, he moved forward. She wanted to wait till dawn before settling the problem? Fine by him. She wanted to carry the girl till her arms fell off? Suit yourself! See if he cared.

* * *

The sky had just begun to lighten when they finally reached the trail they were after. Creed checked the map. This one would take them eastward of a small ridge rather than westwards, but there would be a gorge they could use to cross the ridge and return to the right trail. He had chosen that trail because it was circular: they would end exactly where they had started, next to their jeep. The detour, though, would require putting in a whole lot of extra miles. Once they used the gorge as a shortcut, they'd have to travel south to find the original trail. Before he led Isabel and his baby back onto the trail, however, he'd have to go ahead and scout the area, make sure whoever had been hunting the bear wasn't after them. That would require leaving Isabel alone with the child for some hours. Maybe even a whole day.

"We need to find a stream and make a fire," Isabel said behind him.

She was sitting on the ground, Victoria supported on her legs as she gave her arms some much needed rest. For a moment, he was tempted to take the girl and let her recover, but she had tired herself of her own volition. If she wanted help, she had a mouth she could use.

"I have no more purified water and I'm thirsty. Lilia Victoria will need to drink something for breakfast, too."

He nodded his agreement and sniffed the air, trying to smell humidity. Nothing. Maybe a bit ahead.

The sun had already risen for some time when he heard a faint sound of water.

"Sh," he said for Isabel to stop dragging her feet across the trail.

It was to the left. He glanced at the woman. She looked spent, and not just physically. She'd been awake for over 24 hours, after all, and had eaten nothing but a few energy bars.

"There's water in that direction, not quite a mile away. It's probably a good idea ta set up camp an' sit tight fer the rest o' the mornin'."

She followed him silently. Well, wordlessly. The way she dragged her feet and tripped over every little thing was noisier than if she has been speaking. He was aware she kept moving the sleeping shild from one arm to the next more and more often. Why was she too stubborn to ask for his help, dammit?

When he finally found the little brook, he cleared an area and took out the girl's pad and sleeping bag. Stiffly, Isabel lay her down and she curled herself in it. Creed had been waiting to hear a sigh of relief or see any little sign that betrayed her exhaustion, but not even a stronger breath left her lips. It irritated him and he turned his back on her, started getting the tent out, the material getting stuck under his pissed off movements.

"Com'ere an' gimme a hand wi'the tent ta make this faster," he grumbled. "Make yerself useful."

"Yes," her voice rang with chilly detachment, "because I'm rarely useful, huh?"

He dropped the tent and the backpack onto the ground. This had gone on long enough!

But when he looked at the woman and saw her clearing the area to make a fire, he understood how his words could have been taken as hurtful after that spat in the clearing, hours ago. Especially with that bad mood of hers that got ruffled over every little thing.

"I didn't mean ya ain't useful," he partially repressed the snarl.

"My English isn't very good," she said in English for a change. "But when you say 'make yourself useful', I think dat means de person wasn't useful before. My comprehension is wrong?"

Ok, time to fix the mess once and for all!

"I didn't laugh at you, ok? I wasn't makin' fun of ya or whatever ya think."

Her face looked everything but convinced.

"What the hell d'ya want me ta say?"

"Nothing," she hissed still in English, focusing on clearing the area. "You have nothing nice to say, so say nothing."

His growl bubbling up, he lunged for her and grabbed her face hard, forcing her to look at him.

"I've already told ya I wasn't laughin' at ya. What the fuck else d'ya want from me?"

"You're hurting me," she grunted and he let go of her face.

His anger and frustration were starting to hit dangerous levels. He better take off to clear his head before…

"I want know," she interrupted his swelling fury, "I want you be real honest wid me: you prefer I leave you in de trail? You prefer dat I leave you in de bloody clodes? Dat I don't try and hide our trail in case people appear? Dat I don't make dat stupid shelter? Because if you prefer all dat, den I'm sorry I didn't guess what you wanted. But if you prefer what I did, den say thank you."

Wait! She was offended because he hadn't thanked her? For real?! Hell if he'd ever understand women.

"And you don't have to say real 'thank you', you can say… 'dat was nice'. I don't know! Just say…"

"Thank you," he growled. "There! Thanks fer draggin' my ass outta the trail. Happy now?"

She looked at him as if he had sprouted two extra heads, then breathed in and made a very obvious effort not to start crying. So, no, this wasn't about the stupid lack of thanking. It was the laughing-at-her thing, wasn't it? Yeah, it was. He'd try it one last time.

"I didn't laugh at you, woman."

"No," her voice shivered back into Portuguese. Damn the damned language! "You just laughed at my hard work, at my stupid attempt to be useful, and then refused to have my help because you still think I'm too helpless to do anything right. It doesn't matter how much I try to be at home in these stupid forests you love so much. God, I don't even know why I bothered the Skinners to teach me how to survive off the woods!"

Wait, she had asked the Skinners to do what?

"The only thing you appreciate is when I show improvement tracking animals. Or howling like a demented lunatic! I've been washing the cooking gear with ashes, Victor, and I washed a couple of our T-shirts too. Do you know how many backpackers do that? I've showed you how I can make little ropes from bark. You laughed and said those couldn't handle any weight. They're not supposed to, man! I know what leaves and needles and barks and plants of all types I can use to make teas and food and… Everything's crap for you!"

Ok. He got why she was so upset. But she could have said something sooner, couldn't she?

"Sorry," he grumbled. "I hadn't noticed…"

He didn't finish the sentence because he realised that was the wrong thing to say the moment after he'd said it. It was always after, wasn't it?

"I'm sorry I don't like 'em teas. It ain't like I can change that! An' those reenactment dickheads could have taught ya how ta make an actual shelter!"

Her outraged expression made him think it was probably a good idea to just leave it at sorry. Final stop. The less he said, the better.

"They didn't teach me to make shelters. I _improvised_. I couldn't just leave you there with no protection overhead!"

Yupe. The less he said, the better.

"In that case, it was a great improvisation! There ya go! Most people can't do a decent shelter not even after years o' tryin', so ya're already better than…" The less, the better. "Than a whole lot of assholes! I'm _sorry_."

Was it all good now? Aside the fact she'd need time to get over herself, obviously, but was the root of the drama cut off? Not from the way she breathed out, it wasn't.

"I'm thirsty," she said simply. "Let me get this fire going so I can boil some water, ok?"

Fuck this all to hell! He grumbled that he was going to scout the area and took off.

* * *

Creed stayed away until the sun was overhead. By then he had cooled down enough to recognise how deeply hurt the woman was. He wasn't stupid. If she had spent the last few months learning how to use the resources of the forest to impress him and he'd completely dismissed her efforts… although he hadn't _completely_ dismissed them. She'd made the dehydrated meals more bearable. If it weren't for the things she'd added, he'd have given up and hunted something to eat a long time ago.

Still, he could see why she was pissed.

And it kind of gnawed at him that he had find some of her skills… amusing, to put it mildly. Like the stupid teas or the little ropes made of bark. What was the point of those? But now that he knew she'd been trying to learn how to make do within his preferred environment… He supposed a weak little rope was better than nothing.

And the worst thing was that knowing she'd been trying so hard to become at ease in the forest made him feel kind of proud of her, and that only made him feel more pissed about having dismissed it all. He hadn't meant to! He just didn't see the use of half the things she'd learnt, that was all.

He returned to the camp to find Isabel awake, walking mindlessly round the tent like a robot while singing in whispers drowned by the rustling leaves. What the hell? She should have been resting so she'd have her strength back and could handle a few more miles in the afternoon! Had her blasted fury killed what little sense she had in her brains?

"Pappa!" Victoria called out suddenly, springing out from the tent.

Shit. Of course, she wasn't sleeping. Not if the girl was awake! She could have wandered off all by herself. Why the fuck had he kept away for so long?

"Pappa, 'ook! 'i'buggies!"

He crouched down to see the little buggies the girl had been playing with. It was a couple of grasshoppers whose wings had been clipped. Isabel's handy-work, he supposed.

"I'll prepare the fire to cook some lunch," she said in a tired voice.

Creed got up with the girl in his arms and got closer, feeling bad about the exhaustion that was clear on her face and movements, even if she was trying to play it cool.

"I'll take care of it. Ya need ta get some sleep, too."

There was something in the way she hesitated that made him think she was going to fight him on that, but then she nodded.

"I killed the fire because I didn't know if it might attract the attention of soldiers."

"There was no need fer it," he said for the sake of saying something. "It almost didn't smoke, and we're upwind anyway, not ta mention the light of the fire would only have been visible in the dark. 'Sides, I didn't hear any aircraft, so whoever was sent in is probably on foot and will take a while ta reach the bodies."

She didn't say anything, which he figured was a good sign.

"Are ya feelin' hungry?"

She had barely eaten, after all. They had only had four or five energy bars left and that isn't enough food to sustain a body for over twenty-four hours. But she shook her head and crawled into the tent. No, of course not. Adrenaline killed her appetite. He set his girl down and made sure she was busy with her buggies, then he focused on bringing the fire back to life.

"Hey, ya gotta get some sleep," he insisted when he saw her coming out of the tent carrying a little pouch.

"Starting the fire and warming the food is five minutes. There's no sense in trying to fall asleep only to be woken up right away. Here: put the rest of the peppergrass seeds in. I prefer that to be seasoned."

"Yeah, me too," he grumbled as the flames shot up.

"Oh, spare me!"

She turned away in renewed fury and he grabbed her wrist almost instinctively, then pulled her to him.

"Don't you dare," she hissed, her eyes dry for once. "If you didn't give shit about this before, don't you dare suddenly start saying you like it just to shut me up. Don't you fucking dare treat me like that much of a dumbass! I'd rather you make fun of it. At least you're honest when you do so."

"I'm not… Look, woman, I don't like dehydrated food, get it? This crap ya add makes it less of a pain. It's the only thing keepin' me from huntin' some fresh meat an' gettin' rid o' this."

She blinked, taken aback.

"Why didn't you say so when I bought them?"

"I ain't ever eaten dehydrated food fer hikin' before. I didn't know what it was like till we started eatin' it!"

She breathed sharply in and he let go of her.

"An' just 'cause I never said I prefer the seasonin' ya add it don't mean I don't like it." It occurred to him that if he had said something along those lines before she might have never blown up. Anyway, perhaps now was the time to bury the stupid war axe. "I'm sorry I didn't say I like it, but how the hell was I supposed ta know ya needed me ta praise ya at every turn?"

"Praise? Is that what you call it?" Her voice had just dropped tens of Fahrenheit degrees. "Well, don't worry. I'm definitely cured of any need for validation out here in the woods. Especially from you."

Fuck it all to hell! He snarled at her. Why did she take everything he said as a damned offense?

"What? You should be happy about it. Now that I've finally smashed into my stupid brain that whatever little worth you may find in me means so little to you that it doesn't even deserve mentioning – because, after all, saying you like something I did is unnecessary praise – you'll never have to worry about me getting hurt about it again. See? It's a good thing!"

Damnit!

"I didn't say ya're worthless!"

"And saying you like something I did is not praise! I do not want any praise, Victor Creed, not from you, not from anyone! But if after all I do, you only see me as better than an asshole… Fuck it, man! Is that all you can think of to compare me with? An _asshole_?"

"No! I…"

A mewl stopped him. Both of them, as Isabel looked in the direction of the sound too. Victoria was staring at them wide eyed, a deep pout twisting her little features. When they turned at her, she hiccupped a little sob then started crying.

Isabel reached her first, but Creed was an inch behind her. The girl held on to her Mamma's neck for a second, then stretched her little hands to him and he eagerly took her from her Mamma's lap. He looked up at Isabel to finish th… The expression on her face froze him. There was nothing but pain in her dry eyes. The kind of pain he liked to inflict in his enemies, poking at their soft hearts. What…

"I'll finish lunch," she said in an almost defeated whisper.

"Wait," he grabbed her wrist.

She shook her head, not even looking at him. She didn't fight his grip either.

"It's you she wants, Victor. It's always you she wants. You have no idea how many times she asks about you when you're on a job. And it's ok. Really. But I'm tired, and I need to eat something, and sleep a little, and rest my legs. I've spent the entire morning walking to and fro, afraid to sit down and fall asl… Shit, the fire's dying."

He let go of her as she hurried to the fire and spurred it up. Then she filled the pot with water and set it by the flames. Creed crouched next to her. Not crying anymore, Victoria's head whipped around to inspect her Mamma's movements.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean… Everyone's a fuckin' asshole in my book. But _you_ ain't. There's a reason ya're the Mamma o' my baby girl."

She chuckled bitterly.

"I'm your daughter's mother because of an accident, Victor. And that accident only happened because you had it stuck in your head that I had to be yours. Wasn't that why you rescued me? Because nobody takes what's yours and gets away with it? You said that quite a few times, down in Mexico. I was just lucky that you thought I was emotionally strong enough to get over the trauma. That was all. Don't retcon the reality to suit your sweet talking. I'm not stupid."

He'd forgotten about that. Yes, that was the reason why… how had he come to think of the whole thing as him choosing her as the only woman worthy of being his baby's mother? He frowned over it for a moment but then shook his head.

"I could still have regretted it, but I don't. I'm glad it was you I knocked up. The point is there's only two kinds o' people in this world: the assholes an' the non-assholes."

"I thought it was predators and prey," she whispered stiffly. "I've got a good memory, Victor, and I happen to listen to you. You should try not to forget that."

"Well, the assholes are prey, obviously."

"The assholes are whoever you think isn't good enough," she sighed. "I'm going to get another of those meals; just… forget about it, ok? I got the message loud and clear: I won't be stupid and expect something from you that you simply aren't interested in giving. It's my fault. There! Let's just focus on… God, it's late! Look, why don't we just eat and keep on walking? If you carry Lilia, I'll be light enough to keep up a decent rhythm. I just want to get as far away from those bodies as we possibly can. Please let's…"

"Sure," he interrupted. "Sit down so ya'll rest yer legs fer at least a few minutes."

If she was putting an end to the matter of her own volition, he sure as hell wasn't going to stop her. He got a package from the backpack and realised there were only three left. Guess he'd have his wish of fresh meat after all.

* * *

They were half way that gorge Victor had talked about. They were lucky that there was a relatively wide stream flowing down the gorge, even if it didn't have fish large enough to merit catching. On the other hand, it had lots of cat-tails, as well as watercress.

Every little bit of food Isabel had packed was gone, which meant less time walking and more time preparing meals. Victor had to hunt something up for lunch and dinner, after all, and then the meat had to be cooked. Breakfast was now a mix of berries, boiled watercress and cat-tail rhizomes baked in the embers of the fire. Lilia loved the chewy things so Isabel sometimes baked a few extra rhizomes for a mid morning snack.

Unfortunately, they'd stop having those easy resources once they'd crossed the gorge and had to travel south. Maybe they could find another stream to follow?

Held tight in Victor's arms, Isabel closed her eyes and willed herself to stop thinking about food and let sleepiness take her over. Despite being tired from all the walking, she'd had trouble falling asleep ever since their big fight. That afternoon when they had taken off, Isabel had received another blow to her ego. As before, he had grabbed her hand during the walk, but being sore over the whole thing she'd tried to avoid his hand.

"It's an irregular path," Victor had said. "If ya trip, I'll be able ta keep ya from fallin' face first."

And to think she had previously thought he held her hand as a sign he appreciated her presence. In his head, it had always been a matter of safety because, obviously, Isabel was uncapable of staying upright on irregular ground and was in grave danger of falling and hurting herself. She had been too spent to fight him over it so she'd just let him hold her limp hand whenever he thought the terrain was too rough for her frailty. The gorge terrain being truly difficult, he was constantly holding her hand. She didn't care about it anymore, anyway. He wanted to think she was more prone to falls than their two and a half year old child? Let him! It wasn't worth the effort.

It annoyed her far more when he nuzzled her neck, at night. That was something he usually did before and after sex. He rubbed his face gently against her neck, breathing in her scent, and sometimes nibbled her skin. Sometimes she wondered if that gesture had the same meaning for him as a kiss does for most people, and oh, how she loved the feel of it! But, wrapped in the sleeping bag and knowing how little he thought of her, it made her feel worthless.

A wolf howl pierced the night sounds and Victor sat up, listening. Lilia opened her eyes and whimpered.

"Sh, my love, it's ok. Everything's just fine."

It worried Isabel, the way the girl seemed more scaredy. She might be playing cheerfully, but then she'd suddenly freeze, listening carefully, and wouldn't relax till Mamma or Pappa had picked her up. Her sleep was much lighter, too. Tonight wasn't the first time she'd woken up with a louder sound and whimpered fearfully.

"I'll be right back," Victor said, going out.

Lilia whimpered for Pappa immediately and Isabel sang softly to distract her. When Victor came back shortly afterwards, she had already closed her eyes.

"It's a lone wolf, but it knows better than t'come closer. Nuthin' ta worry about."

He rubbed Lilia's cheek with a light finger, then made himself comfortable under the sleeping bag again, putting his arms around her and once more nuzzling her neck. God, she couldn't stand it!

"What is it?" He whispered. Must have noticed how stiff she'd become. "Is it the wolf ya're worried about?"

"You're holding me too tight. I can't breathe."

It was a lie and she knew he would smell it. For a moment, he stood still, then he did lighten his grip. Taking a deep breath, Isabel closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep.

"Next summer," he whispered again, "I'll scout the entire area o' the trail 'fore we come on a hike. Make sure there ain't no more crazy bears ta ruin our fun."

She felt like crying.

"Next summer," she whispered back in English, "you come wid Lilia Victoria because she has to learn to live in de forest, but I stay home."

She was never, ever coming into a forest like this again. Never!

"Why?"

His voice sounded guarded, half suspicious, half surprised. She shook her head. How could he ask why after all that had happened? All that she'd said?

"Because I hate not have toilets."

She said it in English and had meant to stop it at that. In her opinion, it was reason enough to abhor the very idea of spending more than a few hours in the middle of a forest, but he didn't say anything and she ended up continuing.

"I hate not have real food. I hate not have water. I hate de wild animals. I hate…" Her whisper choked under the need to cry all the hurt she'd accumulated inside her. "I hate not have clean clodes and not be able to do de laundry. I hate not be able to have a shower. You want dat I continue?"

"Do you hate me?"

He said it flatly and Isabel had to fight off the tears.

"No, of course not. I was stupid to think you could see me as something more than a helpelss frail. I never should have…"

"I want ya ta come," he interrupted urgently. What? "It ain't the same without ya."

Oh, for the love of God and Our Lady!

"Of course is not! Is a good thing, right? You can walk at de speed you want and not have to worry about hold my hand because I can fall and break. Much more relaxing widout me, definitely!"

His arms gripped her body and this time she did find his hold too tight.

"I don't want ya ta get hurt."

"You have to hold my hand because I can fall, but you let your daughter of 30 months walk around widout worries, Victor! Dat means you don't worry if she falls and hurts herself?"

"It's different," he hissed. "Ya ain't got a healin' factor like she does!"

Rub some more salt on that particular wound, won't you?

Isabel had known her baby girl had a healing factor since the very beginning. She'd seen how fast her belly button had healed. How any scratches she made on herself vanished almost immediately. How all the bumps she'd given once she'd started crawling and then walking would never become bruises. She also knew that Victor prized his healing factor as his greatest asset, after his heightened senses. It was the one thing that set him apart from all the other people who broke at the slightest bump and couldn't get better. She knew he could never really like someone who was weak, but anyone without a healing factor would always be weak in his eyes. She would always be weak in his eyes.

"I'm not a frail."

"Uh… I didn't mean… Don't cry, Nesi! I didn't mean it like that. I know ya ain't a weakling. I know that!"

"I used to play wid bulls, Victor! I piled scars from deir horns and I got hurt a million times and never! God! How can you say you have to hold my hand so I don't get hurt _walking_!"

"If it pisses ya that much, then I won't hold yer hand ever again, happy?" His voice sounded angry and how could he be so thick! "There's no need ta get upset over it an' say ya don't wanna come hikin' with me again!"

"I _want_ dat you hold my hand," she hissed back. "But because you like feel me near, not because you're afraid I'm going to fall!"

She could feel his chest heaving against her. Fast and deep breaths. Isabel breathed in sharply and cleaned her face from the tears. Since he didn't say anything, she told herself she had better close her eyes and get some sleep. This conversation was over.

She couldn't get over the fact that he thought she was so inept, she couldn't even walk over irregular terrain witout risking a fall! No wonder he dismissed anything she did! To him, everything she did was like… like watching a child learning something new but which is basic for everyone else.

"I'll admit I was wrong," he said hoarsely.

Isabel didn't even have the energy to scoff at his sacrifice. Try not to hurt yourself bending backwards on my account!

"I eat berries an' fruit when I'm out on my own," he added in a stiff whisper. "I know which ones are toxic and which ones are good ta eat. Sure, I can eat 'em all an' survive, but the poisonous ones ain't somethin' I wanna eat. They taste bad an' my body has ta do some work ta get rid of 'em. It's best not ta eat 'em in the first place. But that's the thing: I mostly eat meat an' then I toss in a handful o' berries, if there's any around! But our Lil' Devil needs more 'an that. Those cat-tail roots an' the watercress ya forage… That's important. I just… I didn't even know ya could eat those things."

Isabel kept silent. She could understand why he dismissed her herbal knowledge now. He truly thought it was all worthless. For him, at least.

"Listen: I want Victoria ta learn 'bout the plants ya know. While she's too little ta hunt, knowin' which plants ta eat means she doesn't have ta go hungry if she's ever alone in the woods. I mean, just see how much she loves the roasted cattails! Even I'll admit they don't taste bad."

She bit her lip to remain silent. He had been eating the rhyzomes for three days now and not once had he mentioned they were edible by his standards. Was it such a painful thing to say something he'd never tasted before wasn't as bad as he thought it would be? It didn't even require saying he liked it! She wouldn't dare to wish for such an effort on his part!

"Nesi, listen…"

Go ahead, she was listening. See? He expected her to know what he wanted through silence. Bet he didn't like it when the tables got turned around, huh?

"I don't usually blackout fer that long, no matter how bad the damage is. Fer as long as my instincts say I ain't in a safe place, I'll wake up the moment my senses notice a sound or a smell or a… A healin' factor works faster when ya're asleep. All the energy o' the body gets redirected t' the healin', ya see? If I was out fer thirteen hours, it was 'cause my senses could tell I was in a safe place."

He nuzzled her neck timidly.

"Don't ya understand? Draggin' me away from the trail, gettin' all the blood off me, buildin' that stupid shelter…"

But it was still stupid!

"Ya made me feel safe," she barely heard him say.

Isabel breathed in with a shiver.

"Say ya'll come out here with me again, Nesi."

"Fine," she whispered in English, "I come wid you."

"Promise!" And his voice was back to its usual demanding tone.

"I promise," she grumbled.

He kissed her neck urgently and his grip tightened so much she let out an involuntary gasp. He loosened his grip.

"Sorry, I didn't mean…"

"Stop, Victor!" And this time she turned around to face his glowing eyes. "You bite me and cut me wid your claws and you never worry about dat."

Although he did, as he would constantly ask if it hurt and lick any half-fresh looking wounds.

"And now you can't embrace me because I break? I don't hurt dat easy, man! I'm not a porcelain doll."

How many times did she have to say this?

"I know, sorry, I…"

His hand was suddenly rubbing her face.

"A porcelain doll couldn't have dragged me as far as ya did. And ya didn't even drag me, ya _carried_ me. Don't ya think I know… ? Dammit, Nesi! I weigh more than twice yer weight. D'ya have any idea how many normals could have pulled off such a stunt? Nearly none! An' that stupid idea o' droppin' leaves over the tracks… Ya might have fooled an amateur, ya know? At least, if ya'd managed ta drop some more leaves overall. But the thing is… there was no way those tracks could have been disguised. Not fer real. But ya're so smart ya thought up the only way that _could_ have disguised 'em. There was just not enough leaves."

Yeah, so smart that she'd wasted precious time and strength on a useless ruse.

"And ever since we've ran out o' food, you… Nesi, d'ya understand that ya could have kept you an' Lilia well fed through these days even if I wasn't around ta hunt meat fer you?"

Yes, she knew. It had been the whole purpose of studying all those plants the Strikers knew about.

"Are you aware that most people would survive only 'cause they had water, but they'd be usin' up every lil' fat reserve in their bodies an' then more? That's how a lot o' stupid hikers die out here! They can't keep 'emselves fed, much less well fed! But _you_ can do it, Nesi. And all ya need is some lousy plants!"

When he kissed her, she grabbed the nape of his neck and gripped it with her nails, which had grown a bit over the last few days. He moaned in her mouth and she gripped harder. Why was she so stupid that a little sweet-talking from the man was all it took for her to forgive him anything? She wasn't even sure if he truly believed his words or if he was just… saying what she wanted to hear. She bit his lip and he half-purred, half-snarled. She so wanted to believe he meant those words. To hell with it! She'd believe him.

"Ah, mi Nesita, there's no one else I'd rather have here with me," he moaned breathlessly.

Before she knew it, he was unzipping her sleeping bag and roaming her body with his hands.

"Lilia," she warned even though she wrapped her legs around his body.

"She won't wake up," he purred in her ear. "We'll keep it quiet."

"I'm so dirty and sweaty, Victor!"

"Ya smell sweet an' spicy," he moaned, ripping her panties as she squeezed his hard butt. "Oh, my sweet Nesi, ya smell divine!"

* * *

Creed ran through the forest as fast as he could. He'd been away for almost 24 hours and despite having sworn to Isabel that he trusted her to keep their Lil' Devil safe, he couldn't wait to make sure they really were safe.

He had not expected to take so long. His plan had been to creep back to the spot where he'd killed the bear and check if the bodies were still there. They weren't. A group had recovered the bodies and, from the look of it, dismembered and packed out the remnants of the animal. However, he'd noticed that one man had been left behind, and he was following his family's trail through the forest. Obviously, he'd hunted down the tracker.

Just before dying, the guy had revealed that the bear had been a cloning experience gone very well. They were in the process of cloning some species of megafauna back to life but a short-faced bear had escaped its precinct. It was a private company and they'd contacted a group of ex-military to hunt it down before it came across witnesses. Oh, and to make sure any eventual witnesses met with deadly accidents, obviously. Creed knew the deal. When the men had stopped all communications, the company had contacted a second group, this one specialised in hunting, and given them the same instructions.

Breathing hard, he stopped to drink some water at a little brook. He was almost there, anyway. The sun was already up and Isabel should be packing everything up, expecting his arrival any time. Having been running non-stop for hours, he walked the rest of the way, once more thinking about his baby girl.

She'd cried her little heart out when he'd left and he agreed with Isabel that she seemed less carefree, even fearful, something that had been unthinkable before. There were moments when she'd freeze, listening to some sound which, he guessed, she couldn't promptly identify. Her sleep was lighter too, not to mention she had never wandered more than a few feet from either Mamma or Pappa and had also asked to be carried more often. Isabel was of the opinion she just needed to feel reassured and that it was best not to make a fuss about it, give it some time and he'd agreed. He was still worried, though.

Soon, the constant rustling of the leaves became more harmonious. He grinned. He recognised Isabel's voice in the harmony. It sounded fairy-like and the ridiculousness of it made him chuckle. No, better yet! It sounded elfic, like those Lord of the Rings movies with their perfect, solemn elfs. Yeah, that was it! He stopped to enjoy it for a bit. He couldn't really distinguish what she was singing, which added to the feel, and her voice either rose above the murmur of the tree leaves and needles or sunk softly beaneath it. It was like a wave, really. A fanciful jackass might imagine the trees themselves to be singing. He laughed at the idea and hurried onwards. Finally, he heard his baby girl shout 'Pappa!' and he jogged until he had her in his arms.

The camp area was dutifuly cleaned.

"Did you find anyone," she asked in her native Portuguese.

"The bodies are all gone an' there's no one followin' us," he answered, avoiding the lie.

He always had this feel that it was best to avoid lies. She was stubborn as all hell and might start saying that if he'd lied once, he'd lie again and she couldn't trust anything he said. It was something Jacob Clemens had said. Or maybe Harland Harper. One of their wives threw that jab regularly, that she couldn't trust him again after he'd lied to her. That was one thing useful about putting up with dumbasses complaining over their wives: you learn how to avoid stupid mistakes that will bite you in the ass for a long time to come.

Creed put on his backpack and thoughtlessly got a hold of Isabel's hand. He felt her stiffen immediately and he looked back at her. Shit. Over the last days he'd forced himself not to as much as touch the woman when they were walking, much less her hands. Never again would he give her an excuse to go on and on in teary complaints about being treated as a frail. As if holding her hand was such a bid deal!

"It's a straight path," she breathed out, her face tense.

If he let go right now, she'd keep accusing him of treating her like a weakling. He tightened his hold.

"It ain't nuthin' ta do with thinkin' ya're gonna trip and hurt yerself," he mumbled under pressure. "I just… like… uh… I like ta feel ya safe beside me."

Yeah, that was a good one.

"I mean, ya're safe an' sound, right? So… holdin' yer hand is just… I can feel ya're safe."

She breathed out and shrugged. Ok, no drama. Good.

"How long till the trail?" She asked.

"Oh, 'bout a mile or so. An' then it's some twelve more miles. We should be by the car by the end o' the day, in the latest."

She squeezed his hand timidly, not exactly the way she used to do when the trip had started but close enough for him after the whole days-long drama.

"Let's go, then. I want to have a long bath tonight."

"Com'on, Lil' Devil," he looked down to see the child grab the rock she had been playing with at his side then stretch a little hand for him to hold. "Let's go home."

* * *

 _I hope you're all enjoying the adventures of these hidden years. I'm afraid I'm not quite satisfied with the next two chapters so I'm going to take a three week break to have enough time to spot what's bugging me and correct it. I'll meet you back in Creston next Sunday, October 6. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

If you've enjoyed the chapter, please leave a review. Just let me know what you liked and disliked so I can keep improving my writing skills. Thank you.


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